This takes place the Christmas before the 25th World Martial Arts Tournament and goes through the nameless announcer's Christmas Eve preparations. Happy holidays, everybody!

The blond-haired man, now in his early forties, shuffled in his pink slippers to the front door. His Christmas tree has been assembled, standing at a good height of two feet, on his baby grand piano. He went right past it and picked up a stack of letters that had been forced through the mail slot on his apartment door. He placed a hand to his back and pushed it straight, groaning in the process. He was becoming older with each passing year, making him wonder just how much longer the crowd would be able to stand him. He had to stay in good shape to keep an audience entertained, though the weights his mother had sent him for Christmas didn't seem to be helping. What he needed was a mat to sit down on each morning and devote ten minutes to pilates.

As he stood up, he looked at the mirror hanging in the foyer of his apartment. He bristled his moustache and pulled a comb out of his blue robe pocket, pushing stray hairs back with it. He smiled to himself, though that expression quickly faded. Creases were quickly distorting his pale complexion, and his hairs were turning grey. If this aging process continued on such a rapid route, he knew that the rest of his body would catch up. And that would certainly put him out of his job, as announcers to the World Martial Arts Tournament had to be youthful and spry.

He shuffled back past the baby grand piano after setting the letters on it, making a mental note to check them later. At that moment, however, he could hear his tea kettle boiling. He made his way through the tiny apartment, from the living room to the dining room, and then to the kitchen. He sighed as he set out his cup of instant coffee, pouring the hot water into it. It was the late afternoon Christmas Eve, and he knew that he was going to be up late that night wrapping presents for friends.

It was times likes these that he wished he didn't procrastinate so much.

Then, pulling up a stool in the cramped kitchen, he pushed the tape and wrapping paper aside and set the coffee cup back down. He leaned against the counter, wondering whether to wrap now or start preparing dinner. It was probably going to be the same reheatable rice he always prepared, being one of his favorite foods. He smirked at the thought and combed at his moustache with his forefinger absentmindedly. Yes, rice did sound tasty at the moment, certainly more appetizing than going through dozens of presents, wrapping them, and slapping name tags on them. So he stood up, abandoning his cup of coffee, and grabbed the box of rice from his full-sized pantry.

He pulled a pot out from underneath the counter and set it under the faucet, letting it fill with water. Once it began creeping up to the edge, he stopped the tap water and placed the pot on his gas stove. He dumped the box of rice in there before turning the knob, generating a small flame underneath the metal.

He took another sip of coffee, still too hot to enjoy, before returning to the living room. From there, he turned his radio on and gentle Christmas carols began filling the tiny room. He grabbed the letters from the top of his baby grand piano and squeezed between its bench and the sofa, stumbling over some unwrapped presents. He groaned as fell, just catching himself on his two palms. The letters scattered everywhere, some flying underneath the furniture. He quickly gathered what he had dropped, leaving only one letter unattended to, and that was possibly the most important. Then he stood back up, groaning again as his back popped, and shuffled in his pink slippers back to the kitchen.

He sat down on the stool, setting the letters in his lap as he licked some of the coffee off of his thin moustache. Then he turned his attention on the bundle of letters in his possession, surprised by the quantity. He held the stack at a certain distance from his face due to being near sighted, knowing that he would have to get glasses soon. When he finally got the letters at the perfect distance from his face, he began shuffling through them, one by one, dismayed by a few unpaid bills he needed to tend to. Then he found a Christmas card from his mother, wishing him a good Christmas. There were a few from acquaintances, all of whom he had briefly met while at tournaments. And the final one he smiled at, brightening his Christmas Eve. It was actually one from Mr. Satan, a man with whom he liked to think himself friends with.

His face fell as he noticed the letter was very impersonal, simply saying 'Happy Holidays' with the legendary figure's face on the front. Then, inside, was a stamp of his signature. The announcer sighed in disappointment, setting the cache of letters down on the counter.

The blond-haired man turned his attention to his rice, which he noticed had begun boiling water. He yelled with shock and leapt off of the stool, quickly turning the heat off. He pulled a wooden spoon from a nearby drawer and poked the clustered rice, grimacing at the mess he had created. He decided that this was as good a time as any to pull the pot off of the stove, dumping the remaining water into the sink.

He scooped a small amount from the top of the pot and tasted it. It was a bit al dente, but it was acceptable by his standards. So, eagerly, he poured the remaining rice into a large bowl, sticking a spoon in it. Then, with his rice in the crook of one elbow, his coffee in hand, and the wrapping paper, tape, and scissors all in his other arm, he made his way back to the living room.

The announcer dropped his tools down and placed the coffee and rice down on his round table. Then he set to work, determined to wrap all of the presents that night. The looming tower, however, intimidated him; he wasn't certain that he could finish by Christmas morning.

But as he started, he found that the work was easy. He worked with the Christmas music, humming to himself as he progressed. Present after present was wrapped, starting to pile up impressively. He glanced at the building stack about halfway through, already in awe by what he had accomplished. It wouldn't be much longer before he would finish, he knew.

It was eight o'clock before he reached underneath the sofa for the final present, a wallet he had bought for one of his neighbors. But as he pulled his hand back from under the sofa, he found that he hadn't retrieved a wallet, but rather a dropped letter. He grinned broadly, his wrinkled face cracking as he held it out before him. It was from a fellow named Krillin, one who had competed in World Martial Arts Tournaments when he was just a kid.

He tore the envelope open with scissors sitting at his feet and pulled open a plain, white card, only a few blue snowflakes adorning its cover. He opened it up and adjusted it to the perfect distance before him, glancing over the sloppy script before reading:

Dear Mr. Tournament Announcer,
How are you? You may not know who I am, but I was
one of the competitors in the the 21st, 22nd, and 23rd
World Martial Art Tournaments. I was the short, bald
kid who always used to hang around another kid with
more hair than me. Anyways, I want to wish you a
merry Christmas and promise you that I'm going to
reenter the tournament next year. It will be good to be
out in the stadium again, and be sure to expect some
GREAT matches this next year!
Sincerely, Krillin

The announcer reread the letter several times, registering each scrawled word of kindness and thanking the man whenever he reached the bottom of the card. His smile stayed set as he put the letter down, glad that somebody cared enough about him to actually write a personal letter. He turned his eyes to the tiny tree sitting on his baby grand piano and sighed contentedly, fishing his hand under the couch for that last present.