A story about a black man shooting Santa Claus after a misunderstanding. It was written a few years ago, and I probably would have tried submitting it somewhere if I could have found a good fit. Some people may be uncomfortable with a certain racial epithet used in the story. I’m black, by the way, something that will probably become more evident when I eventually start posting rants about biases in the literary world. We’re not there yet. = – )

Rough Draft!santa-claus-153309_960_720

 

 

           Here Comes Santa Claus

              by Ron Cypress

The whole thing is still surreal to me, and I am still having a hard time believing that it ever happened. I am assuming that the majority of you are familiar with the story but feel that most of you have gathered information from bias sources, and I would like a chance to tell my side of what happened. For just over a year now, I have been verbally attacked and my life has been threatened. I am ready to go over what happened that night, and hopefully I will get a little more understanding about the incident.

To address one question that often comes up when the incident is brought up, yes, I was living in the two story house on my own. I’ve gone over this a few times; I was able to afford the house after creating a successful computer program that allowed users to accurately pick lottery numbers. To put that part of the story succinctly, the program was pretty elusive and hard to obtain. I had used it to win a few lotteries before offering it to other people. Whenever I sold my program to someone, that person signed a contract stating that I would get a percentage from any lottery they happened to win, whether they utilized my program or not. Once I got enough money from that and no longer felt like going to court over the money I was owed, I sold the program and lived off of the profits.

That’s how I was able to afford such a nice home in such a nice neighborhood. In this neighborhood, I was one of six African-Americans living there. The other five were part of the same family, and I hardly saw them. The neighbors were friendly, but we all pretty much kept to ourselves. The house I lived in was equipped with a very adequate security system, however, there was on flaw in it; the system didn’t have an alarm for the chimney.

At least, it didn’t tell you if someone was coming down it, which is what happened that Christmas Eve night.

I was in my room when I heard the noise coming from downstairs. I had been drinking some and was slightly buzzed when I heard the noise. Since I lived alone in a house that was nice and filled with expensive products, I was usually on guard. As soon as I heard the loud noise coming from downstairs, I whipped open my nightstand drawer and withdrew a loaded gun. By the noise that was being made, I was certain that someone was entering my home. I didn’t know where they were coming from or what they were doing, but I knew that it was the sound of an intruder.

I saw him as soon as I walked into the living room. He was a heavyset Caucasian and pretty much looked the way Santa Claus has constantly been portrayed in the media. He was standing right beside my chimney, and when he noticed my presence he began to speak.

“Oh my,” he said in a voice that was instantly cheerful. “Seems like there may have been a small glitch in the system. I was looking—”

I pointed my handgun and pulled the trigger, cutting him off before he could finish. Two shots were fired. To this day, I’m still not completely sure why I shot him. I know that I viewed him as an intruder, and I guess the reaction was instinctive. I had let him speak long enough to notice that he had a very pleasant and powerful voice. It’s hard to describe, but there was something about it. I guess I would say it was almost magical. Unfortunately, my mind was already in survival mode and the man who I would find out was Santa Claus didn’t stand a chance.

He stumbled back and fell to the ground after the two shots. He continued to speak after falling to the ground. I can’t remember everything that was said, but I recall him mentioning a wife. I think he also said something about it being so hot that year. I really wasn’t paying attention. After I shot the guy, I stood over him for several seconds before rushing off to get my phone. I called the police and told them about what had happened.

While I was waiting for them to arrive, I remained near the injured man as he slowly died. A part of me wanted to help, but the internal voice that represented the majority was concerned that the unidentified man might have some kind of disease that would be passed on through blood pathogens. So I left him alone, only talking to him to inform him that the police and ambulance were on the way. They arrived and I gave them my story. The man was in critical condition by the time they got him in the ambulance. He would die at the hospital a few hours later. The investigation into what had happened started immediately, the police asking me numerous questions about what had taken place and if I was sure I didn’t recognize the man.

By this time, I had recognized the man but I saw him as someone who was dressed up as Santa Claus. I assumed that it was probably some drug addict or raging drunk who had gotten dressed up and let the outfit get the best of him. It wasn’t until a few days later that I found out the person I had shot was the real Santa Claus. After receiving that news, I had to deal with the shock that the authorities were claiming Santa Claus really existed, and I had to deal with the fact that millions—if not billions—of people were going to be pissed off because of me.

I assume you’ve all heard the news about how the U.S. government and other world powers had kept Santa Claus a secret. I’m sure some of you heard about the shooting but still think that it was just an imposter who was killed. Turns out the guy was real, and he was really going down my chimney. Apparently, the real Santa Claus doesn’t deliver gifts, but instead he visits the homes of kids who are in bad situations and delivers miracles. These miracles range from cancer going away to abusive fathers suffering fatal heart attacks.

That night, there had been a fault in the computer application he used to find children in need, and he ended up going down the wrong chimney. He sure did. The FBI told me all about the real Santa Claus as they questioned me about that night. I thought they were trying to pull one over on me; the whole thing was a part of some conspiracy against wealthy African-Americans who weren’t involved in sports or entertainment. I thought they were trying to get me.

But it was real. I had killed the real Santa Claus.

My face was constantly in the media despite the fact that I asked for privacy. It didn’t take long for people to figure out who I was. The threats started coming right away. In most of them I was referred to as a “nigger,” and the person making the threats insisted that my days were number. By the time New Years came around, I was being accosted on the streets.

“You goddamn nigger,” one boy yelled at me as I was strolling down the street. “You killed Santa, you nigger.”

The boy appeared to be about eight and was pretty skinny. Watching him yell, I thought about how I could probably pick him up, give him a few good shakes, and break his neck. I just kept walking, hoping the boy would just return to his parents and leave me alone. He was the first to harass me on the streets, but there would be plenty more. Most of the people that scorned me were young kids.

“I hope you die, nigger.”

“I’m not going to get the purple dress I wanted because of you. Die, you nigger.”

“Santa Claus was a great man, you black piece of shit.”

“My dad is going to hang you, nigger.”

All of these came from kids and young teens. Often their parents were there, but all they did was give me a scathing look that buttressed their child’s verbal attacks. Some of them did rebuke their children after they lashed out at me. One guy forced his son to apologize after the boy called me a nigger. The guy was a history teacher, and with me standing there he began to tell his son about all the wonderful things black people had done in America. He dropped a bunch of names that I had never heard of but probably should have known. The son eventually apologized, and I was left feeling bad.

I remember hearing from some old timers that the word “nigger” was used for them so often in the past that they grew numb to it. I never thought that would have in modern days, but that’s eventually what happened. I found myself getting called the word so much that I gradually stopped caring. It shouldn’t have been that way, though.

So Santa Claus died because of me. Mrs. Claus revealed herself and posted a bunch of messages on the Santa Claus website and Twitter page. More information came out about how Santa Claus operated. The whole thing really is an organization; one that happened to be run by a large group of dwarfs. They were upset because it would take at least a decade to find another Santa Claus. Santa Clauses come and go, but they usually hold the position for long time, and if one of them died suddenly—something that never happened before my mishap—then it would take a long time to replace him.

I felt bad and still do feel bad about what happened that night. If he had gone through a window or door, my alarm system would have gone off and alerted me. I think because he came down the chimney my fear was heightened, and I felt like I had to react to a stranger standing in my living room. I’ve been asked if I would do things differently if I could. The answer is obvious. No one could enjoy constantly being harassed and threatened. No one could enjoy being called a “nigger” over and over again.

Some of the hate has subsided, but I still worry about my safety. The threats are still coming in, though in smaller numbers. I don’t want to die, and I feel like I have the right to live in peace. The police determined that I was justified. They’re supposed to be keeping an eye out for me, but they’re not really guarding me as much as they should. I think a bunch of them are mad about what happened and feel I should be in jail.

I hoped that the black community would support me, but they have remained silent for the most part. I think a large majority of them were shocked to find out that Santa Claus was real. I believe the fact that he could remain so veiled only exacerbated the paranoia that many African-Americans have.

What else are they keeping from us?

Anyway, there was no support from the black community. They don’t want to get involved, and I don’t blame them. A bunch of them are also pissed off over Santa Claus dying. I’ve tried to explain myself, but nothing ever avails when I speak about the incident in public.

I am weary. I am concerned. I’ve become more conscious about my treatment of little people, bunnies and turkeys. I really am a peaceful guy I would never want to hurt anyone. The Santa Claus incident only happened because of a horrible misunderstanding. I hope things will improve in the near future and that I will eventually be forgiven by the public. Until that time comes, I will keep living a very reclusive life, one which sees me constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure no one tries to give me what I gave Santa Claus.