T-minus 12 days to Christmas. T-minus 30 minutes to store open. Michelle drained another nerve-steadying eggnog and went back to herding seven men in full-body swan suits into the foaming swimming pool.

“Smiles, everybody. I want to see smiles. I don’t care if you’re wearing masks. I can feel your energy. Now where the hell are my French hens? They should’ve been in maid uniforms an hour ago. Geese-a-Laying, what is the hold-up?”

"Where are the eggs meant to go?" said one goose.

“You figure it out. That’s why it’s called improv, darling,” she snapped. “Nathan, you know the rules. No hot-boxing in the suit. Put that cigarette out and get your head on.”

“Is it always this chaotic?” asked New Guy to Nathan.

Nathan assumed he had a name. If New Guy survived past the first day, he’d bother to learn it. He took a last inhale, slipped the oversized maid’s head over his own, and exhaled.

“Normally management doesn’t try to run a full production of The Twelve Days of Christmas. They're really throwing you guys in at the deep end,” he said, looking over at where the swans had begun foaming each other's curves. “Anyway, so me and Chris will be around from ten to suck you off for a few hours. Then you’ll have David and Yusuf from midday. Every two hours, they'll-

"Did you say sucking?" New Guy gulped. "I thought it was maids a 'milking'?!"

"Management figured they could cut down on breaks if we drink on the job. So think of yourself as like the office watercooler. And keep those udders topped up. We all get real thirsty in these suits."