(LMAO. WHY do I even try? What's it been, two years? And I can still smell burnt feathers... Ya know, I do love you lunkheads. This came in one burst, origionally as Rudolph the Flaming Kestrel:
Paw, Cletus, Reg, and Buford
Used to laugh and call him names
And toss him in front of Pissant
When he ended up in flames...
But it was just too painful. Spit tea everywhere. I canna do it...)

In the back booth of the tavern, Red finally sighed and set the tiny gift upon the table. The newly tailored asbestos longjohns sparkled in a holiday fury that was vaguely reminiscent of Elvis' last Christmas in Vegas.
She walked to the door, stuck her head out, and gave a sharp whistle. The kestrel was tempting fate yet again, flying in lazy arcs around the sparks and clouds of flatulence that surrounded SantaSpaw's sleigh. "Will that damn bird never learn?" she thought
When the kestrel left the bar and flew again, it was wrapped in red-suited holiday splendor (nowhere near as painful as fire) and darted quickly to the front of the sleigh, where the glow from his sequined firesuit led their merry way.
No real moral to this one, folks. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good light.