Excuse me... your car is on fire.

[There is a row of poinsettias on Crowley’s windowsill, splashes of stark white and red. He waters them, seemingly satisfied despite his awful sweater. Once he’s finished watering the plants he hisses at them in pleasure, voice barely audible:] That’s what you get as long as you’re good. But watch: the second one of your friends starts to slip… But you’d never do that, would you?

[He greets the camera with a smile, a wave, and a brief cheery message.] By my count we had violence, corruption, manipulation, greed, fanatical loyalty, and snow. That couldn't have been more Christmassy if there were pregnant virgins around.

Happy holidays. Up all of yours.

( And the stockings are in flames )