On the first Daze of Christmas,
Paul Heatley gives us The Santa Clause. . .with guns and corpses.
Paul Heatley gives us The Santa Clause. . .with guns and corpses.
Saving Christmas by Paul Heatley
Tim
panics when it looks like the guy’s going for a weapon. He fires and blows the
intruder’s face out the back of his skull.
Scott
screams, rushing to his father’s side. “Holy fuck, dad – you’ve killed Santa
Claus!”
Tim
blinks at his nine-year-old son. “I ain’t killed Santa, don’t be ridiculous.”
“You
think he’s gonna get up from a headshot? Look at him!”
Tim
does. The guy’s got a red robe but doesn’t look a thing like Santa Claus. He’s
a skinny, beardless junkie, breaking in homes on Christmas Eve looking for
gifts to sell to feed his habit. Except now his face and brain are gone.
Tim
heard the window open, heard the intruder’s heavy footfalls. He grabbed the gun
within easy reach under his bed – it’s a bad neighbourhood. The guy gave a
start when Tim levelled it at him. Said something weird like I fucked up,
man – he said he was makin a comeback, but I didn’t believe he was the real deal.
Then he started reaching into his robe, and Tim’s finger tightened on the
trigger.
“You
gonna do somethin?” Scott says.
“Like
what?”
“I
dunno – what d’you think you should do when you’ve killed Christmas?”
“Christ’s
sake, Scotty – I ain’t killed Christmas. This ain’t Santa Claus.”
“Then
where’d all these gifts come from?”
“They
came from me – I put them there! Get back to bed, Scott. Let me think
this through.”
“What
about the sack?”
Tim
looks beyond the dead body and sees the sack. It lies flat on the ground. Tim
uses the end of the gun to lift it a little. He peers inside and sees the
handlebars of a dirt bike. When he lets go, the sack falls flat. “The fuck?” He
reaches inside and touches the bike. The one Scott asked for. The one Tim couldn’t
afford. Tim turns to the dead body. “Holy shit…” The guy still doesn’t
look anything like Santa Claus. Tim checks inside the robe, finds what he’s reaching
for: a phone. It’s on and lit up. There’s a picture of a fat man in a red robe,
pants, a thick white beard, and a bullet hole in his chest.
Tim
stares at the picture.
“Dad?”
Tim
turns.
“What’s
that noise?” Scott asks.
It’s
above them. Tim pinches himself, hoping to wake up because he knows what’s up
there. He’s not asleep, though, and hears the hooves stamping with impatience.
“I
think this man killed Santa Claus,” Tim says. “And I’ve just killed him.”
Scott
blinks. “Holy fuck, dad.”
Tim
stares at the body and the blood pooled around it.
“So the
guy you’ve shot,” Scott says. “You think he was trynna make things right? Trynna
save Christmas?”
“I
guess he musta been.”
“Then
you gotta save it instead.”
“Huh?”
“C’mon,
dad – put on the robe, grab the sack, and get up on the roof.”
“Ain’t
happenin – look what happened to this guy! Look at what he did to the real
Santa Claus!” Tim feels stupid saying it.
“If you
ain’t gonna do it, who is?”
“No
one! No one’s expecting this grand comeback! Nobody’s waiting on a fat man in a
red suit.”
“Good. Cos they’re gonna get a thin one.” Scott smiles.
“Forget
it. I’m not doing it. I’m gonna call the police and they can come deal with this
shit.”
“What
about the gifts that haven’t been delivered?”
“The
sack’s empty.”
“It
looked empty before you pulled that bike out.”
Tim
looks at the flattened sack, then at the bike propped against the threadbare
tree decorated with old tinsel and paint-chipped toys. He turns to Scott, “You
ain’t gonna let this go, are you?”
“I’ll
come with if it’s gonna make you feel better.”
Tim
pulls the robe from the corpse. There are flecks of blood on the white collar. He
walks to the window and lifts a leg over the sill.
Scott follows.
Tim
raises the gun and waves it a little. “If we’re goin, we’re takin this with
us.”
