Santa’s Helper (bp coyle)

I don’t kill Santas for fun you know. It’s not like I’m disturbed. To read what the tabloids say, you’d think I was some kind of nut. I decapitate them for serious political and social reasons. That is also why I leave the heads on top of Christmas trees.

I believed in Santa Claus until I was twelve. Like really believed. I ignored the gossip on the playground. I ignored what my brother whispered in bed at night. Every year I queued up with all the other kids, the tiny kids, and went to see Santa’s helper to tell him what I wanted.

But when I was thirteen my Mother refused to take me any more, she said it was embarrassing. She told me the truth.

I refused to believe. It had to be a lie. If she was telling the truth then this was the biggest conspiracy every known to humanity. Forget Illuminati, forget grassy knolls, this was little old ladies on the bus asking you if you had been good. This was total strangers asking what Santa was bringing this year.

From that moment I knew it was my duty to humanity to expose this hoax.

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