Santa Claus Goes Postal

I was wondering when he’d snap.
Long hours, horrible weather, uncooperative ungulates, bratty little midgets running underfoot causing nothing but problems, overflowing mailbox, plus, I hear he’s developed high cholesterol, high blood pressure and diabetes from long-term obesity.
On top of all of that, his damn wife left him. He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness’ sake. Well, the bitch had been bad, so just for that, Santa was gonna give her a Christmas to end all Christmases.
Santa showed up at the door of the party with a huge present. A little girl opened the door. About 100 billion little girls had sat on his lap already, he’d had plenty enough of them, and here was one more, dammit. He pulled out a .45 and shot her dead, then opened fire on the rest of the party. Santa Claus is coming to town, motherfuckers!
Surprise party! Ha! That’s one Christmas gift they’ll never forget. Then he opened the Christmas box, pulled out some flammable lighter thing and torched the place in order to cure his North Pole frostbite once and for all. The place got too hot for Santa, so he waddled out of the burning home and headed for his brother’s place.

Bruce Jeffrey Pardo, Santa Claus Killer
Bruce Jeffrey Pardo, Santa Claus Killer

First we have Suicide Performance Art, with emo fools killing themselves in front of cheering audiences on the Internet. It was a matter of time before Homicide Performance Art would appear on the scene. The Santa Claus Killer, Bruce Pardo, 45, of Covina, California, will go down in history as one of the first Homicide Performance Artists. At his first and final performance on Christmas Day 2008, Pardo shot eight people dead, then killed himself to end the show. The audience didn’t even know what hit them. The early Surrealists had few limits, but I suspect this may even have been a bit too much for Man Ray.
Once there, the reality of his deed burned on Santa’s conscience. All of those years of all of those millions of kids showering him with love, and him raining presents on their sweet little noggins in return, all of the Christmas carol tributes, all the ho ho ho’s and Merrry merrry, all gone, gone for good. Blown away with a .45 and a head full of the rage of abandonment by Mrs. Santa, the only woman who ever truly loved and understood him.
No one would ever be able to dress in a Santa suit again. That could only be the cruelest of jokes. And worst of all, eight dead people, who had been told all their lives that Santa was the biggest of lies, only to find out that Santa was as real as real gets.
The enormity of it all. Weighing in, an albatross, a dead seabird as heavy as the Rock of Gibraltar.
There was only one thing left to do.
Shoot.
He put the gun to his mouth and pressed the trigger and the Santa myth was blown away forever in a moment of blood, guts and horror.
Merry Christmas everyone.

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