Urban legends in poker usually arise from improbable bluffs, impossible reads, or that one guy who runs hotter than mathematics should reasonably permit. But among high-stakes regulars, there is a stranger story whispered every December, one that toes the line between holiday cheer and the supernatural. They call it “The Player with Santa’s Costume.”

A Red Suit in the Highest Stakes Game in Town

It happened in one of those private poker clubs where the minimum buy-in already filters out the unserious. The kind of place where the staff wear gloves, the chips sound heavier, and the players rarely smile.

That night, though, the whole room froze when the door opened and a man in a full Santa Claus costume stepped inside. Red suit, white beard, boots polished like obsidian. He walked with slow confidence, letting out a warm, booming:

“Ho, ho, ho! Merry dealing, gentlemen!”

The room exchanged looks, half-amused, half-offended. But he bought in without hesitation. Cash. High-stakes cash! When he sat down, the dealer shuffled, and the atmosphere in the entire room somehow shifted, everybody could tell it. The table tried to keep a straight face and... they failed.

Merry Reads, Perfect Calls

The first hand arrived, and with it, the first surprise. Santa called a big river bluff instantly, smiling:

“Now now… thanks for the present!”

Players chuckled… until they saw the cards. He was right. He had made a perfect hero call.

The second hand, he folded early, saying gently:

“Ho ho ho… patience is a virtue!”

And the flop came exactly the way that would have stacked him. A perfect fold.

By the third hand, he value-betted a player so precisely that the poor guy needed a walk around the room to breathe again. Hand after hand, the red-suited stranger floated from perfect read to perfect hero call to perfect fold. He wasn't overly aggressive, nor was he passively tight. He was simply correct... Eerily, effortlessly correct.

Even the pros started shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

"Is that... luck?" someone whispered. "No," another muttered. "That's something else."

The Question and the Goodbye

Hours later, Santa raked in another tidy pot with a grin so warm it made the loss sting less.

Finally, one of the regulars, someone deeply respected at that table, leaned in and posed the question that was on everyone’s mind:

“Alright… seriously. How are you this good?”

The man in red winked, a single glint of mischief behind his wire-rim glasses. “Oh, I just know who’s naughty… and who’s nice.”

He stood up. Cashed out. Walked toward the door with his boots thudding softly against the club’s elegant floor.

Vanishing Into the Night

A waiter noticed he had dropped a handkerchief from his pocket. Fine embroidery, deep crimson, trimmed with gold thread. He quickly picked it up, chasing after the man, “Sir! You dropped your...”

He opened the door. No one.

Only cold air swirling outside, as if the night itself had inhaled the man whole. Above the rooftops, for a moment, the waiter could have sworn he saw silhouettes floating across the dark sky. Reindeers. A sleigh. Or maybe just a trick of tired eyes.

He looked down at the handkerchief again. It smelled faintly, impossibly, of roasted chestnuts and fresh panettone.

And from that night onward, every December, players at that club swear the room feels… watched. Not by something dangerous. But by... judgment? For the whole month, every poker game is mysteriously merrier, and no one can tell the reason why.