Harold Bumblestock took a deep breath, puffed out his scrawny chest and beamed the broadest smile he could muster. Burridges Department Store had already been open for an hour, and it was fast approaching the crucial moment, the unveiling of his latest invention.

Wearing his lucky striped socks and his best suit, which also happened to be his only suit, Harold tried to squash the fluttering nerves in his stomach. At two minutes to ten, a little earlier than agreed, he thought, “Best get started,” as he watched restless children tug desperately at their parents’ arms, begging to escape to the Lego display.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, today is the day that changes Christmas forever!” Harold’s voice boomed through the store as he marched towards the small podium at the centre of the floor. With a dramatic swoosh, he pulled back the red velvet curtain concealing his prized creation.

Gasps burst from the children as they burst into spontaneous applause. Harold allowed himself a small triumphant grin. The children were easy but the parents, they would require convincing.

He turned to face the crowd and announced with glittering pride,

“Let me present to you The Christmas Killer!”

The mothers moved from unimpressed to horrified, fathers blinked confusedly, and the children exchanged puzzled looks that made Harold wince.

Standing before them was a man-sized robot with a friendly  face, dimpled cheeks made of brushed steel, and an ornate panel of coloured buttons across its chest. Its eyes twinkled like fairy lights and its metal fingers wiggled in a cheerful wave.

“He doesn’t look like a killer, Mr Bumblestock,” came a small voice.

Harold looked down to see Tommy Clarkson, who lived five doors down from him on Peppermint Lane, peering curiously at the robot.

Harold smiled and leaned closer. “Well, Tommy, let me explain.”

He tapped the robot’s shiny shoulder. “This marvellous machine doesn’t kill people. Good heavens, no! He only destroys the dreadful, dreary, dismal chores of Christmas!”

The parents shifted, suddenly more interested.

“First we have the Toy Assembler 3000 mode,” Harold continued, flicking a blue switch, “he’ll build any toy, however complicated, in under five minutes, without losing a single screw.”

A few fathers shuffled guiltily.

“Then there’s the Wrapping Wreckage Remover!” Harold pressed a yellow button. The robot whirred, and in an instant a tiny vacuum hose popped from its elbow with a cheerful ping. “It zooms about after present-opening chaos, scooping up paper, ribbons and tags.”

Several mothers nodded, impressed.

“And, of course, the Dish Washing Dynamo.” A silver switch was flicked.  Plates, cups, and cutlery stacked neatly nearby rattled in approval. “He washes, dries, and puts everything away before Uncle Bernard has even finished complaining about the gravy.”

The children giggled. Uncles across the store looked offended.

“But!” Harold said, raising a finger, “there is one final function. The most spectacular of all. The reason I call him the Christmas Killer.”

The crowd leaned in.

Harold pressed a glowing red button shaped like a miniature skull wearing a Santa hat.

The robot straightened. Its eyes glowed. A metallic voice declared:

“Brussels Sprouts Detected: Zero. Await Target.”

Tommy burst into ecstatic laughter. Parents exchanged hopeful glances. Someone in the crowd whispered, “Finally.”

“Yes indeed!” Harold said proudly. “One press of the Sprout-Smasher Supreme button and this brave fellow will hunt down and eliminate every brussels sprout in your house. Roasted, boiled, hidden under mash, none shall survive!”

The crowd erupted into applause.

For the first time that morning, Harold felt as though he might actually float. Christmas would never be the same again, and for once, that was a good thing.