(Age 6)

Deare Santa,

I would like my own cirucut board soldering gun for Xmas. Please tell my mom I will be verry careful and NOT burn down the house like she thinks.

Sinceerly,

TonyS.

(Age 13)

Dear Santa,
(AKA Mom and Dad because I KNOW it’s you guys.)

Okay, I can play your little game. I would like an ATV, a second ski trip to Aspen—this one without cousin Ogden and his boring stories about working for John D. Rockefeller—and a subscription to MAD magazine.

Oh, and while we’re at it, I could go for the full line of Snap-On wrenches—the ones with the metric option, and my OWN Oreo Double-Stuf supply since someone keeps swiping them out of the kitchen cupboard.

I’m not pointing fingers . . . MOM.

Tony

(Age 20)

Santa.

Fuck you, and everybody else in their happy holiday houses this year.

I’ll get my OWN damned bottles of Jack Daniels, fat boy, thanks.

Up yours,

Tony Stark

(Age 37)

Santa, baby!

Long time no see—although considering the amount of coal I’m owed I’m not surprised. You ought to consider consigning a few C5s to drop off that payload, heh.

Anyway, I’m pretty set this year, what with corporate profits in double digits, enough hot babes to fill every sorority from here to Miami, and a new Spyder to refit. Life, she is good, I tell you. But hey, I’ve got a few requests on behalf of some buddies of mine and I’m hoping you can help. First of all, can you please, PLEASE give Rhodes a sense of humor? Please? Honest to Christ, the Junior birdman is seriously impaired in the grins and giggles department, and it might help if he had a stick-ectomy to get the rod out of his ass.

And get Potts something nice. Really nice. I’ve already screwed up her Christmas Eve by needing bail for me and the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. It’ll be in all the papers, but trust me, the suppressed details are much, MUCH more interesting.

Ciao and kisses,

Tony Stark

(This year)

Santa.

So, I’m good. For stuff, I mean. Have been for a while, actually. Let me know if YOU need anything. Seriously.

Yeah, it’s been an interesting year, and I’m not really sure where to begin, because if you’ve been keeping tabs on me, you know that I’ve gotten into a new gig, so to speak. And it’s sort of changed a few priorities for me, so I’m not here to ask for things from you.

Things . . . yeah, they’re nice, but I’m surrounded by them. What I would like for Christmas you can’t stick in a box and wrap and put under the tree. At least not without criminal charges, although Miss Potts has a pretty understanding nature. And that pretty much says it all, right?

All I want for Christmas is Pepper. I mean for real. For ME, not working FOR me or taking care of my day-to-day agenda the way she has for waaaay too long. You can’t miss her—tall, red hair, absolute-ly killer ass. Not politically correct to point that out, but hey, we’re both men of the world.

I’m sure Mrs. Claus got back, right?

Anyway, that’s pretty much it. One (1) Virginia Potts. I’d prefer unwrapped, but should she arrive otherwise, I’d be more than happy to unwrap her.

Oh yeah.

Yeah.

Getting back to the point, I know I’m THE poster boy for the Naughty List and have been for a few decades, but if you could see your way clear to deliver on this one sweet little wish, I’d be happy to upgrade your sleigh with a couple of hemis, deliver stock shares of SI, just name it.

Thanks,

Tony E. Stark