I Killed Santa Claus

I wanted to keep my evening free to buy gifts for my son, but how could I know that the desperate children’s parents would ring me for a surprise party to thank me for my patience. And you wouldn’t believe, the party was so excellent that I forgot my own son.

To make the story sound more interesting I should add that my wife was the kind of quiet woman who wouldn’t do anything save breathing within four walls. I came home.

“Father? Will Santa Uncle come tonight just like each year?” asked my son. I almost died.

I stammered.

I slurred.

Then I lied. “You know son, the news has just gone by. Santa Uncle has been killed.”

“Santa Uncle killed!” My son was so innocent that he remained quiet for some seconds. “This means that no child will have gifts this year.”

“Right. Masked bandits chased him when his chariot landed in our town.” I paused. “They attacked him and stole his gifts. First they cut his beard to see how he appears. Then, they removed his hat to see if he had real hair.”

“And they killed him,” my son continued.

“Right.”

“Haven’t the police done anything?”

“I don’t think they can,” I stammered. I was at a loss. I realized I would be worse when my perplexed son would be looking at his friends’ Christmas gifts.

During the conversation I couldn’t understand my wife. As if she wanted to say something. When I met her afterwards, she said there was no need for the lie. She had bought several gifts. That was a first. Was she finally emancipated? Or an astrologer, who knew I wouldn’t buy the gifts? That Christmas was proving slightly different.

I questioned the astrologer in my wife. “You think our son will be asleep at midnight?”

“He’s disappointed. When he is, he sleeps,” she
said. That wasn’t certainly astrology.

“So, we can keep the gifts near his bed and tell him in the morning that miraculously Santa Uncle is still alive,” I said.

“That will be fine,” my wife concluded shyly.

Midnight. I slipped into my son’s room. Alas! He wasn’t there. We searched everywhere. No trace of him. Forget emancipation. Forget astrology. My wife was now a wild mother. And to appease a wild mother is some job.

I rushed to the nearest police station. I filed a case. But as I came out I saw a policeman and my son, with a big ice-cream. Maybe it’s the quickest solved missing case of all.

He ran to me. “I came here and criticized everyone for their handling of Uncle Santa’s case.”

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