The Murdering Truth of Santa Claus-

This is the true story of Santa . . . I know that it will not be appreciated by some, but the truth must be known, for it has not been told before now . . . here, then, is the real story.

 

The Murdering Truth of Santa-

 

I want to detail something strange that happened to me . . .

It was the night before Christmas Eve, when holiday preparations stole away the minds of those who would otherwise have tried to- as per usual- beleaguer my attention with sordid gifts and terrible food samples they'd wish for me to try. I decided to go out for a walk, and found myself at a deserted pub, or what appeared to be. As I was cold, and a bit thirsty for something warm, I decided that I would pay a visit to this lonely, inexplicable object (house, or whatever it may have been).

As I opened the door and looked around curiously, I realized that this was not so much a pub, but had been fashioned in the style of a house.  As I'd entered in at the back, there was a kitchen to the left of me, and, further beyond in the house, a television droning.  I peeked over the windowed barrier to the next room, and thought, for a moment, that I saw Santa Claus. He was not wearing his typical apparel, though. He was dressed in a blue shirt, and a shiny name-tag glinted upon his lapel. I thought, for a moment, that I heard him chuckle a bit underneath his breath. I walked a little closer to him, and realized that he was hiding something in his knapsack. I thought, 'perhaps these are the goods that he had taken home from his factory?

As he sat down in front of the television, I placed Santa under observation. I crept up behind him and pried opened his bag carefully. I noticed a CVS price tag on one of the items in the bag, and quickly placed it back inside. I reached in once more, and my hand closed around something strange. It rustled beneath my fingertips- I withdrew it. The crumpled parchment slipped from within my grasp, and, whilst casting a quick look at Santa to ensure my cover was still intact, read the note. The handwriting was that of a child's:

'He killed off my whole family, and I've been searching for him my whole life- where is that magical imp!' Restraining my breath, and sucking it into my mouth- reminding myself of being a vacuum in the process- I quickly thrust the note back inside. 

I wondered through the rest of the long hallway, now in deep contemplation. There was a mug, and a box of cookies sitting beside the picture frames of two children, which had been carefully placed upon the dining table. Out of curiosity, I bent over the cup, as I could not see what was inside of it. The heavy aroma of alcohol reached my nostrils; I quickly turned away, and continued explore the halls.

I am not sure when I became aware of it- but I think it was right about then that the beginnings of anger lit my breast. I began to feel sore at the man who was sitting in the other room, watching my television set. This man was not at all who he appeared to be. He was merely a con man.  A burning anger rose up in me, and threatened to devour me. I started to think over the different ways that I could get my revenge on Santa.

It did not take me long, and I quickly decided that I would plot to kill him.

The next night, on Christmas Eve,  when all of the children were asleep, I rose and, taking with me an axe (which I had inherited from my intended) and crept into the house where Santa hid. As I walked in from the back once more, I noticed that he was packing up manufactured items in his bags- all stolen from various pharmaceutical stores, no doubt. I brought my axe over his head, and bore down upon him from the back . . .

Santa never even turned around.

That night, I killed the real St. Nicolas. I erased from the world a childhood tale that should not have been born. Once revived, it is a tale of mystery and traumatic happenings, and things that are better off not  known. The current image of Santa- the beauty which has fluffed beneath the heads of hundreds of children worldwide, as they fell asleep dreaming to words of peace, is an edited tale. It has been rendered and revised to make it appealing- because not one wants to know the real story.

All in all, I suppose it is better to believe the fantasy . . .

Thank you for your attention.

"He killed off my whole family- I've been searching for him my whole life? Where is that magical imp?" I silently fumed . . .