Midnight in Downtown: Remix Nativity Edition

( A Holiday Short Story)

I was walking in The Golden Triangle in Paris' 8th arrondissement one night when I happened to see one of the donkeys in a nearby lifesize nativity scene blink at me. Not twinkled. Blinked.

Like it knew something.

The wise men were too still.

The camel looked… suspiciously animatronic.

Then the frankincense started to hiss, like a smoke machine warming up.

I took a step closer, and the entire setup flickered - not broken, but like it was buffering.

My left headphone glitched.

My right boot buzzed.

Then...

The wise men suddenly broke out into a beatbox dance. And I realized I was either hallucinating or finally vibing high enough to enter the holiday remix dimension.

Joseph dropped a bassline. Mary hit the synth pad with perfect pitch. Baby J threw me a wink and a candy cane like it was a backstage pass.

I barely caught it since I wasn't expecting it and because the cold blast of fog machine that just erupted from the manger distracted me.

My hands instinctively found my sunglasses - now suddenly required. My boots started tapping without permission like they knew they were about to be part of something iconic.

And I just whispered to no one in particular:“Oh. We’re doing this now!”

I was wearing my light-reactive snowpants (the ones that change color depending on BPM), so obviously I moonwalked past the Louis Vuitton shop, dodged a rogue pretzel nugget, and got pulled into a flash-mob runway where Santa’s elves were voguing in matching puffer skirts and shorts and noise-canceling earmuffs.

Meanwhile, the tree by the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées shot out confetti every time someone screamed “SLAY.” Which was… a lot.

The large red luxury rug in front of the Hôtel Plaza Athénée had turned into a slow-moving rave ramp. With lasers. The three wisemen were being aggressive on a DJ set on the top step spinning peppermint house remixes, accompanied by a squirrel on one of the turntables.

A kid nearby whispered, “That’s DJ Acorn. He only plays in December.”

Of course he does.

Everything smelled like cinnamon-scented denim and danger.

I took my candy cane, nodded at the DJ Wisemen (and DJ Acorn), and stepped onto the neon-lit rave ramp like it was the Met Gala - holiday remix edition.

The sheep were wearing shiny beanies. The drummer boy had a loop pedal and questionable rhythm, but the vibe? Unmatched.

One of the angels slid down a glitter zipline and tossed me a pair of glowing gloves that doubled as head-turning fashion statements. Behind me, a gift-wrapped llama spat fairy dust into the air (not metaphorical—someone named Chad had definitely trained her).

As I strutted on the rave ramp, a line of elves passsed by doing synchronized footwork like it was a K-pop audition, cinnamon sticks in one hand, and a peppermint mocktail in the other - because hydration, but make it festive.

And as the remix dropped into the finale, the neon star overhead pulsed once.

The wise men nodded in unison.

It was time.

Just remember: If the nativity scene starts blinking, don’t walk away.

Strut harder.

You're about to be cast in the Christmas remix you didn’t know you were born for.