Santa and Mrs. Claus deserve a vacation. No elves. No reindeer. No Christmas. Just Las Vegas, baby.Naturally, it goes sideways immediately.Their hotel window has a perfect view of Christmasland — a new casino shaped like a giant Christmas tree, run by people who have never met a holiday they couldn't monetize. Santa is offended on a professional level. Mrs. Claus is offended on every other level.But when Santa finds out exactly who's behind the whole tacky operation...

Santa just wants a vacation.No autograph hounds. No flirtatious strangers. No skateboarders. Just he and Mrs. Claus, a remote Costa Rican mountain cabin, a hot tub, and absolutely nobody who knows who he is.That lasts about forty-eight hours.Now Mrs. Claus is following a toucan through the jungle with nothing but a cigar stub as a clue, a Yule Lad is loose in the North Pole workshop slamming every door in sight, and Santa himself is trussed up on a helicopter headed...

Santa's got a Hawaiian shirt, a tropical vacation, and a wife who's very ready to join him for some well-earned down time..Too bad the Troll King is watching — from the comfort of his castle.In a move that surprises no one but himself, the Troll King makes his wife peer into a cauldron to observe Santa's fun — then spends the rest of his day getting lectured into the ground. With his marriage in freefall and his pride somewhere at the bottom of the cau...