Santa Claus is Coming to Town by Dale Patrick Smrekar

Santa Claus is Coming to Town by Dale Patrick Smrekar

“Before you decide to kill someone, make sure they deserve it.” I don’t know why Santa Claus whispered that to me, but he seemed serious.

I know what you’re thinking. Santa wouldn’t materialize in the middle of March in some ramshackle dive bar. But there he sat in a sullen mood, drink in hand, on the next bar stool over from me. His famous fuzzy trimmed red coat hung loosely on his wide frame, being perhaps one size too large for his rotund body. Its silken red surface appeared pockmarked by many little bits of coat fabric burring outward from its surface. Either he had raced through some blackberry bramble, or a thousand sewer rats had descended upon this less than jolly old guy at some point in his travels. He looked battle worn; eyes dead- no sparkle. His formerly black shiny boots appeared scuffed and scarred. Bits of dried leaves and brown muck sprinkled almost every inch of the fuzzy white trim of his coat. His famous beard, a dirty gray mass of tangled hair. Those rosy cheeks of advertising lore -absent- skin pale, chapped and smudged by soot. There was nothing sanitary about old Saint Nick. Despite his disheveled appearance, Santa sat calmly sipping on a glass of eggnog right next to me; close enough for me to detect the pungent odor of a rancid yeast infection mixed with pine and burnt wood. Santa was ripe, but my favorite bar had seen and smelled worse.

I continued sitting next to Santa, or what looked like Santa, and asked my favorite bartender, Joe, to slide a cold one down the bar.

“I bet you’re gonna say I look like Santa Claus, aren’t you?” Santa whispered, leaning over toward me once again. He never smiled, just stared into my eyes.

“That wouldn’t be a bad guess. Red coat, white hair and beard. Except for the lack of jolly, you fit the description.”

He almost smiled, but the small hint of it quickly disappeared  

“You’re not a cheerful man,” I said.

“I’m sitting mid-day in an end of the world dive bar, and you question my disposition?”

“Just stating the obvious. So old man in a large, tattered Santa themed coat… what brings you this way?”

“Name’s Nick,” he said, extending a hand.

“Yeah, short for Santa Claus, right?”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Well, it’s March, you’re a little bit out of season.”

“True.”

“That advice you gave me when I sat down.”

“What? The before you kill someone, make sure they deserve it statement?” he asked.

“Yeah. That was a joke, right?”

“Just some of my North Pole advice.”

“So, you’re claiming to be Santa Claus?”

“You ask a lot of questions for a guy who just sat down next to a total stranger.”

“And you have an unusual way of starting a conversation.”

“So?”

“I thought Santa was a jolly old guy that brought joy to the world.”

“Just one day a year. The rest of the year I’m miserable… foul reindeer, angry elves… whiney kids who didn’t get what they wanted.”

“Okay, heard enough. You’re nuts. I’m out of here.”

As I stood up, Santa said, “Lloyd, if my memory serves me right, you got a red radio remote truck back in 1980.” His small, grimaced smile returned, then fled.

I paused my escape. “Good guess. Most little boys got one of those in the 80s.”

“True. Until recently, boys always asked for those radio remote trucks for Christmas. Now it’s all computer equipment, tennis shoes, and fancy skateboards. Times change. Long ago it was sling shots, Bowie knives, and beaver traps.”

He took a sip of eggnog and set the glass down gingerly on the bar and looked back at me. “Okay, at fourteen you asked for a camera and film developing equipment. I’m not getting into what you were using it for. But Lily, the older girl next door… she became your favorite subject. Both of you made the naughty list that year.” He coughed, then took another sip of his eggnog.

“I wonder what ever happened to Lily?” I asked.

“Thanks to you, Lily makes more money than you could ever imagine off her online soft-core porn site. It’s Christmas every day for her.”

“Oh, I didn’t know Santa watched those things.”

“I don’t, The elves do. They’re huge consumers of that stuff.”

“Eww.”

“My thoughts exactly.” He pointed a finger at the bar stool I had just abandoned. “Sit back down. I need to talk to you.”

I complied and sat down. The camera story was true.

“Isn’t that eggnog a little old?” I asked.

“Nah, preservatives. They last until mid-June. The bartender here was nice enough to check the cooler. Said he had a gallon left. But he’s treating the eggnog with some whiskey… just in case there’s anything stirring in this old eggnog… You know what’s funny?”

“No.”

“I’ve been waiting here for you for almost an hour. You’re late.”

“You… you’ve been waiting for me?”

“Yeah, this is your favorite bar, and that stool is where you sit all the time.”

“You’ve been watching me?”

He chuckled. “That Santa Claus song is true, you know…. He knows when you’ve been sleeping, he knows when you’re awake…” His head nodded side to side as he sang in a whispered voice, then hummed the tune for a moment or two more. He flashed an odd, creepy smile for a moment, but it faded as before into a blank expression.

“That song makes you sound like some kind of perve… watching people all the time.”

“It’s what we do.”

“So, why are you watching me?”

“Before you decide to kill someone, make sure they deserve it,” he repeated.

“You’re here to kill me?”

“Got your contract, just haven’t decided.”

“Okay, I’m leaving. You’re nuts.”

In my rush to leave, I tipped my bar stool over to the ground. The clattering sound of it hitting the tile floor echoed in the almost empty bar. Joe looked over toward me and flashed a narrow-eyed frown while towel drying a beer glass.

As I picked up the bar stool, Santa spoke. “No use running, Lloyd. Santa Claus is Coming… to Town,” he melodically whispered. “You can’t escape me, Lloyd. I’m Santa Claus.”

“And I’m Batman,” I said.

“Batman’s imaginary,” he replied.

“Some say that about you.”

“Except I’m real and you’re about to shit your pants.”

He was right. My stomach had become a bit queasy. I squeezed my buttock together and sat down to see if the moment would pass. “Why? Why me?”

“I don’t ask a lot of questions. I just take the contracts, Lloyd.”

“You’re a contract killer?”

“It’s seasonal work. I like to keep busy in the off season,” he said, then took another sip of eggnog before motioning to Joe to fill his glass back up.

“Joe, Santa’s here, right in your bar?” I said with a straight face, as he walked up and added the eggnog and whiskey to Santa’s glass. I needed a collaborating witness to the insanity sitting next to me.

“Yeah. He’s dressed a little funny, but I’ve seen worse. Anything I can get for you Nick, it’s almost lunchtime. We have a nice steak and cheese hoagie.”

“Any cookies?” Santa asked.

“Maybe I can wrangle some up. You want some cookies too, Lloyd?” I just shook my head no. Cookies were no answer for the shits.

The whole world is insane. Joe didn’t bat an eye over this character,I thought.“Why me? Who wants me dead?” I asked, as Joe walked away.

“Don’t know. Don’t ask. I just take the contract and pursue the target.”

“You gonna whack me right here?”

“I wouldn’t do that to Joe,” he said, pointing to him filling another patron’s glass. “Joe’s a nice guy. Been a good kid, good man and husband. Runs a clean bar. No need to ruin his day. If I finish the assignment, I’ll do it elsewhere.”

“If you’ve been watching me, you know I don’t deserve to be whacked.”

“Someone thinks you do.”

“And that’s your basis for killing someone?”

“Sometimes. Look Lloyd,” He sighed then continued. “Contract killing is a dirty business. For me, it’s a hobby. Helps clear the mind. This Santa business is tough work – managing those pesky elves and their workshops. And the reindeer! Don’t get me into the reindeer. Smelly, dirty, bad tempered miserable animals… They bite and kick when they’re not harnessed up for my annual pilgrimage. I need three to five months off to recharge. Mrs. Claus visits the relatives. That leaves me with time on my hands. I like to stay busy. Got into this work about a decade ago after the missus told me I was getting underfoot… suggested I get a hobby.”

“Why are you telling me this? I could go to the police.”

“And tell them what, Santa’s out to kill you?” For the first time, the jolly appeared. He shook with glee as he sat on that bar stool.

A minute later, he resumed his seriousness and continued talking once Joe delivered the box of cookies. “Thanks Joe. Very nice.”

“My pleasure. We don’t get much call for cookies around here. Had to run next door to the bakery.”

“Thanks for your thoughtfulness.”

Joe nodded and walked off to attend to a new patron who sat at the far end of the bar.

“See, just as I said, Joe’s a nice guy. Where were we… oh yeah… the police. They’ll laugh their asses off if you accuse Santa of trying to kill you.” He finished by taking a large bite of a cookie. “These are quite good, Lloyd. You should try one,” he mumbled as he chewed.

“I won’t identify you as Santa, just some bum in a red coat.”

“Look Lloyd, that’s been tried before. I’m a charming, lovable guy. The police won’t believe you. They didn’t the last time. They won’t this time. I’m Santa Claus, remember.”

In the back of my mind, I realized he made sense. Convoluted sense, maybe, but he was probably right. Even when less than polished in appearance, he had that magical, calming quality that drew people to him. A charm that evaded suspicion. Looking at him, even now, after being threatened with my life, I didn’t hate him for the killer he’d become.  

We remained silent for maybe two minutes, still sitting side by side at the bar. Me, contemplating my demise, while Santa sat, no doubt considered my final options as he devoured yet another cookie. He was on his third sugar cookie. My stomach felt better, so I decided I should have something sweet if it’s all ending.

“Mind if I have one of those cookies?”

“I asked you to try one. Help yourself. Anything else you’d like on your way out?”

“So, you’re whacking me?”

“I’m leaning that way. Excuse me, got a text.”

He reached into a coat pocket and grabbed his phone. “Hmm, biddings opened on another contract.”

“You bid on hit contracts?”

“We let them know what we’ll charge to take the job. It varies based on travel, anticipated expenses, danger, etc. It’s like those government contracts, lowest bid wins. They rarely award it for quality of work, just price. This one’s a doozy. Brazil. Dangerous assignment. I’ll let the rookies bid on this one,” he said, shaking his head.

“I’m not a dangerous assignment?”

“Hardly, just bar time. You’re what’s known in the industry as an easy hit.”

“How so?”

“No family, not a lot of friends, not accomplished, few if any will miss you. The police will do a walkthrough investigation and close the file for lack of leads or evidence. Hell, let’s be honest, your bartender, Joe, is probably the only one in this world who’ll miss you, or at least your money. You spend too much time in this bar.”

“What you’re saying is, I’m a human black hole.”

“Pretty much.”

“So, how much are they paying you for my hit?”

He just shook his head no.

“What if I offer you more than you’ll get whacking me?”

“That won’t solve your problem. They’ll just reissue the contract and someone else will visit you.”

“What if you tell them you whacked me, but you didn’t really whack me? I’ll go undercover.”

“Nice try. When they discover I lied, they’ll issue a contract on me. I told you it’s a dirty business.”

“That’ll never happen. Who’d whack Santa. There are big consequences to that. No Christmas.”

“Many people would like to see me dead, Lloyd. Religious zealots of other faiths, for example. Toy corporation CEOs that must compete with my elves’ corporate work for shelf space in the stores. People who hate the commercialization of Christmas. There’s a long list. By the way, as long as I remain a contract assassin, no one can take out a contract on Santa Claus. It’s like the mafia, once in – in for life. I’m as trapped in life as you are.”

“Who says I’m trapped?”

“You’ve got a shitty job that barely pays the bills, and your boss hates you.”

“I hate her too.”

“You drive a piece of crap. Got two ex-wives and a bunch of unhappy women who often comment on their dating profiles about their unpleasant experiences with you. You’re a real piece of work, Lloyd.”

“One of them put a contract out on me?”

“Don’t know. I just bid on the contracts.”

“How many have you killed?”

“I average six a year. It’s an interesting hobby.”

“You said something about making sure they deserve it?”

“Usually, it’s a no brainer. Bad guys and girls with bad intentions.”

“How does it make you feel when you whack someone you’ve given gifts to? That must be disconcerting.” I was tap dancing, making conversation to delay my inevitable ending. Maybe he’d change his mind.

“Most of the time, they’re on the eternal naughty list. Don’t have to sweat it. There’s a lot of bad people out there.”

“How does Mrs. Claus feel about your little hobby?”

“I don’t ask what she’s doing on her annual vacation. She doesn’t ask me what I’m doing during my down time. It works. There’s a lot of trust there after so many years.”

“Wouldn’t she object if she found out you’re a contract killer?”

“I know the woman. She’d just say they had it coming. She’s pretty righteous about these things. When the elves staged their uprising a couple of decades ago, she just said God’s will must be done. Smite the Philistines, for they have no respect for traditions or the way of the North Pole. It got pretty ugly there for a while. Had to banish many elves, but they were of the least productive. The craven complainers who found little joy making children happy. You know… that’s one of the basic tenants of the North Pole… Make the Children Happy.”

“It didn’t affect Christmas?”

“Had it happened in November, it would have. But they chose unwisely and rioted in July. Two months later, I exiled them. Distributed them throughout eastern Europe to sideshows and carnivals. One got stuck barking for the Yak woman in a Slovenian freak show. That was a sad little elf. The Yak woman’s family demanded he marry her after she turned up pregnant. He swore he had nothing to do with the pregnancy. But since he slept on the floor of the Yak woman’s wagon, he was the most likely suspect. I posted pictures of the unhappy couple on the elves’ bulletin boards, in case they ever consider another uprising.” He chuckled aloud, then added, “A few of the other exiled elves begged and pleaded to return to the North Pole after a few months of barking for carnivals, freak shows, and low-level circuses.”

“What’s become of them?”

“They’ve learned to adapt. The human condition, you know. We humans and elves are resilient species. We can survive in the worst of environments.”

“So, how am I going to get it?”

“You’re not going to try to flee to save yourself?”

“No, you’re Santa. You know when I am sleeping, you know when I’m awake. I’ve got no options here. You’re always watching.”

“Well, that’s a misnomer, Lloyd. I don’t watch everyone all the time. That’s just said to scare the little boys and girls into appropriate behavior. There are billions of people on Earth. How could I watch everyone?”

“I was going to ask you that. It doesn’t seem possible.”

“Sure, I check in on folks, but now days drones do most of the work. We’ve got a whole elf division dedicated to drone activity. They’re actively watching the little boys and girls. Some adults too. Checking to see if they’re naughty or nice. We’ve developed these tiny little nanobot drones. Almost microscopic, so small we could run one up your ass and you’d never know it.” Santa cracked a smile, then continued. “Since the inception of the drone division, my Christmas workload is down twenty-nine percent. Huge naughty list. Either humanity is becoming so evil, or we just missed a lot of aberrant behavior in the past.”

“You’re a bunch of voyeurs,” I said.

“True,” he replied.

“So, Santa, how you gonna whack me?”

“You’re being awfully accommodating,” he noted.

“Maybe it’s better this way. Life sucks… I haven’t enjoyed living for a few years. That’s why I’m here all the time. By the way, Santa … I hate Christmas. No presents for a couple of years. Christmas is just a lonely fuck holiday for me. Take me out, I’m ready. Just please make it painless.”

“I’d prefer that, Lloyd, but I’m afraid your contract specifies a painful death.” He reached into the inside pocket of his large red coat and pulled out a few pages of paper.

“Here, I’ll let you read it.”

I grabbed the papers and began reading the section titled Painful Death in bold ink. It read:

Painful Death
Subject shall die a slow, painful death, in measure with the pain and suffering they have caused others. The initiating party for this contract insists that it not be by bullets for that will be swift and render little or no pain for the subject. Drawing and quartering would be preferred, as while the death will be swift, the fear and the rendering of flesh from bone would be sufficient to cause the desired horrible, painful ending. However, the initiating party recognizes society no longer affords us that option. Snake bite, tossing off a twelve-story building, staked to an ant hill, dismemberment by a pack of wolves, being drug under a vehicle for an extended period time are all options. Film at eleven would be nice.

The contract originators mired the rest of the contract in contractual legalese, but it bound Santa to my painful ending. I looked up at Santa. He remained solemn in manner.

“Questions?” he asked. I just shook my head in resignation. “Please Lloyd, read the full contract before we make your final arrangements. I’m sorry about this ending. You weren’t such a bad kid.”

I looked one last time at my hit contract and realized the contract said Lloyd Braune, not Lloyd Braun! I grinned. “Santa, I’m not the guy you’re looking for. My name is Lloyd Braun.

B R A U N. The contract says Lloyd Braune, that’s B R A U N E of Tempe. With an e at the end of the surname. Not Lloyd Braun of Tampa.”

“What? Let me see that.” He rifled through the pages of the contract. He read and re-read it, then shook his head. His eyes looked to the floor, then he huffed and stared out over my shoulder. Santa wouldn’t look me in the eyes.

“Santa… Santa, are you okay?” I placed my hand on his shoulder for a moment, then withdrew it.

“I… I almost killed the wrong guy. The contract clearly states Lloyd Braune with an e at the end of the surname.”

“It does. I believe you said – before you decide to kill someone, make sure they deserve it.”

“Yes, I did Lloyd. I almost made a dreadful mistake. I’m profoundly sorry. You didn’t deserve any of this,” he said. “I must be going – need to go find Mr. Braune in Tempe. The guy with an e at the end of his name. Maybe I’ll pick up some new reading glasses along the way, too.”

He stood up, drew close and lightly hugged me. His rancid yeast smell had dissipated, replaced by a sweet pine odor. I experienced an incredible warmth. A rush of positive Christmas memories overwhelmed me. For a magical moment, I felt like a six-year-old child on Santa’s lap. Then Santa whispered in my ear, “I assure you I’ll make it all up to you, Lloyd. Maybe a new Maserati and some spending money or something at Christmas.”

“That’d be nice, Santa,” I said.

“Take care, Lloyd.” He said with a jolly smile, then grabbed his glass and took one last gulp of eggnog, before placing the glass back on the bar surface and trudging out of the building. He paused as he reached Joe, who stood halfway down the bar and threw two multi-colored bills on the bar for him. “No change needed, Joe,” I heard him say as he headed out the door.

A few minutes later, Joe saddled up to me. “Mind if I take the rest of the box of cookies home to my kids?”

“Sure.”

“The large grimy guy in the Santa outfit…”

“Yeah?”

“What a nice guy. Left me two one hundred-dollar bills for a thirty-dollar tab.”

“Nick’s a good guy,” I said.

“What’s he do for a living to throw around that kind of money?”

“He’s the real deal, Joe. That’s Santa Claus!” I said.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Dale Patrick Smrekar 2024