Santa: Woah, I need to get going! I still have a ton of presents to deliver.
Dom Cobb: Relax, there’s plenty of time.
Santa: What’s with the ominous fog horns?
Dom: It’s just the cries of naughty children. Don’t worry about it. Meanwhile, you should really start thinking about what you’re going to give everyone for Christmas.
Santa: I think I’ve got it covered. We’ve prepared all year for this night. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some gifts to deliver.
Dom: Is one of those gifts an aluminum top?
Santa: Excuse me?
Dom: An aluminum top. Do you have one in that bag of yours.
Santa: I don’t remember specifically. I have a lot of gifts to give out.
Dom: Because… I know my friend would be really disappointed if he woke up tomorrow, splashed on a little festive cologne, ran downstairs, and didn’t find a top. He might cry all day until his parents went out to buy him one.
Santa: Your friend…
Dom: Give him a toppppppppp.
Santa: All right. What’s his name?
Dom: It’s “Dom Cobb”. He’s a really handsome guy.
Santa: Aren’t… you Dom Cobb?
Dom leaps forward, stabs Santa with a syringe, and injects a powerful sedative.
Santa: (Getting woozy) Wait, you still live with your parents?
Dream Layer 2: Hotel
Santa: Where am I?
Dom: Santa, I’m here to protect you. Remember your training. Mrs. Claus is trying to break into your subconscious and steal the naughty/nice list.
Santa: First of all, there’s no such thing as a naughty/nice list. It’s an invented parenting device used to manipulate children into adhering to culturally absolute social norms. And second of all, Mrs. Claus has been in a diabetic coma for three years, so I find it suspicious that she appears to be standing right over there.
Eames: I don’t know what you’re talking about, hubby.
Dom: Just focus, Santa. The only way you can protect yourself from Mrs. Claus is to give away all of your toys.
Dom: Specifically your aluminum tops.
Santa: My alumin—
Dom: To Dom Cobb.
Santa: This is a dream, isn’t it? Goddamn it, Dom. Are you trying to inception me again?
Dom: TO THE NEXT DREAM!
Dream Layer 3: A Parisian Cafe
Santa: Why don’t you just tell me what you want? Trust me, I’ll give it to you. It’s sort of my job.
Dom: But what is real and what is a dream?
Santa: This. This is a dream.
A train speeds by, and they are pinned down by machine gun fire.
Dom: Sorry, that’s my wife.
Santa: I WILL GIVE YOU THE DAMN TOP, OKAY. NOW WAKE ME UP.
Dream Layer 4: A Japanese Fortress
Dom: I was going to make it so you could solve your lingering daddy issues only by giving me a top. One of those aluminum ones.
Santa: How were you planning on doing that?
Dom: I hadn’t exactly worked out all the details yet.
Santa: You know you can buy those tops at CVS for like, a dollar.
Dom shoots Santa.
Santa and Dom wash up on the beach.
Santa: Oh goddamn it.
Dom: We’re in limmmmbooooooooo. The only way out is to give Dom Cobb a topppppppp.
Santa: That’s just not even close to true, is it.
Dom: No. No it is not.
Santa: Please? Get us out of here?
Dom: Not without that top.
Santa: Really? Wouldn’t a more practical Christmas wish be to see your children’s faces, or to ask for a top quality U.S. passport complete with a fake identity and Social Security number that will get you past border control and enable you to see your children without having to risk charges for international corporate brain espionage?
Dom: Huh. That’ll do.