You 've just killed Santa in your living room mistaking him for a burglar . Any moment your wife and three kids are going to wake up and come down stairs for Christmas [ WP ]

`` Oh fuck,'' I said, looking down at him. His blank eyes gazed up at me, baseball bat still in my hand. The tag on the brand new bat read my son's name. 
 
 He still looked relatively normal; I had struck him in the back of the head. I thought it had been a clever ploy! A burglar dressed as Santa? But it had been the genuine article. 
 
 I heard stirring upstairs. My kids! Oh God! They could n't know that I had done this. I refused to go to jail. I did n't have time to dispose of the body. There was blood, but only on his back... 
 
 I pulled one of our larger, cushioned chairs over to the tree, and lifted Santa into it. His lifeless body was heavy, but I managed to get him positioned. 
 
 My kids were on their way down to me now. Six footsteps making light staccato on the stair. 
 I pulled Santa's hat down over his eyes. He looked... well, he looked dead to me. But to my kids he might look like a guy tired out from a long night. They rounded the corner. 
 
 `` Santa!'' they exclaimed in unison. 
 
 `` Hi, kids!'' I said, attempting to be enthusiastic. They clamored onto his lap, struggling to all fit at once. He started to tip forward. I put my hand on his shoulder to hold him upright. 
 
 `` Whoa, there Santa. Tired are we?'' I chuckled falsely. `` Why do n't you kids open your presents?'' They jumped off his lap and onto the floor, tearing into their presents. 
 
 `` Wow! A new baseball bat!'' my son Clark yelled. I looked at my six year old gleefully clutching a murder weapon. `` Thanks, Santa!'' 
 
 Over the commotion I did n't notice that my wife had joined us. She was looking at me with a strange expression on her face. My hand was still on Santa's shoulder, as if we were old friends. I quickly removed it. He remained upright. 
 
 She walked over to me quietly. `` Who is this?'' she asked. She bent down and looked into Santa's face, pulling his hat back slightly so she could see his eyes. I was frozen. She let the hat fall again and bolted upright, her eyes wide. 
 
 `` John.'' She said my name at an almost inaudible level. 
 
 I nodded once. She started to walk away. I knew she wanted me to follow. We went into the kitchen, to where the kids would have no chance of hearing us. 
 
 She turned on me. `` Is that a dead man in our living room?'' I shifted my eyes, unsure of what to say. `` John?'' 
 
 I nodded as I had before; once, without a word. 
 
 `` What happened?'' 
 
 I sighed, my breath trembling. `` I heard a sound this morning. I was lying in bed, already awake. I came down here and saw a man next to the tree. I thought it was a burglar dressed up like Santa! You know, if kids saw him they would n't say anything that way.'' I squeezed my eyes tight. `` There was a baseball bat leaning next to the tree. I grabbed it and hit him in the back of the head. I did n't mean to hit him so hard. That's when I saw the sack of presents and I looked into his face and I knew; this was the real Santa. I killed the goddamn Santa Claus.'' 
 
 She looked at me hard for a moment. `` It's okay, sweetie. But we have to get rid of the evidence. Now.'' 
 
 Just as she spoke, a crash and then scream rang out from the living room. 
 
 `` Shit,'' she said. We raced in and saw our three kids looking in pure horror at Santa. He was lying downward on the ground at an unnatural angle. 
 
 `` What happened?'' I asked. 
 
 Clark was crying. `` Marie gave Santa a cookie, but I think he choked on it! He wo n't move!'' 
 
 I opened my mouth to say something, but my wife beat me to it. 
 
 `` Kids, it's okay. This was an accident. Go upstairs now.'' Still weeping, they slowly walked away. 
 
 I turned on her. `` You're going to let them think it's their fault?'' 
 
 `` Would you rather me tell them it's yours? This was a genuine accident. You were protecting your family.'' 
 
 I hesitated, then turned back to look down at Santa. I walked closer to him, as did my wife. `` I do n't understand how you can be so calm.'' 
 
 `` I've been waiting for this day. I've never told you this, but son of a bitch ran my grandmother over on Christmas Eve twenty years ago. He was drunk, but got away without any justice being served because he's Santa. She was n't even jaywalking. I'm only sorry I was n't here to do this myself.'' She leaned over him and spat. Her voice dropped. `` Not so jolly now, are you? Fat man.'' She took my hand. `` Now, let's get rid of this body so we can enjoy the rest of Christmas.'' She flipped him over, then picked him up under the armpits and began to drag him. After a moment, I picked up his feet and together we carried him outside. His head lolled from side to side. 
 
 We ended up dumping him in a river near our house, and watched as he was carried downstream by the heavy current. 
 
 `` RIP Santa bitch,'' my wife said. I looked at her incredulously. She looked back at me and smiled, oblivious. `` I guess we're going to be on the naughty list this next year.'' I widened my eyes. She started laughing. `` Oh, I'm sorry. How ho-ho-horrible of me!'' She doubled over, tears starting to run down her face. 
 
 I turned and began to walk back into the house. I hoped she would n't be close behind. 
 
 Wiping a tear from her eye, she let out one final laugh.
