I Shot Santa Clause

Running. What else can I do? What can you do when you shoot somebody, and not just anybody but a myth? Ever shot a myth? Well, I have. So, I’m running along here, kids are giving chase, parents giving chase to the kids, everybody’s after somebody else it seems, big ones eat the little ones. But look. I shot Santa Clause. That’s the story.

So, go back. I’ve had a problem with this guy for years, maybe all my life, I don’t know. He’s a fat fool with whiskey breath who guilts the shit out of you. “ You been good this year? You eat your peas and carrots and things? You fuck up the way you did all them other years?” So, who’s he, Mister Clean? Son of a bitch goes home to a one room flop and watches the Weather Channel. No Mrs. Clause, no reindeers, no nothing. This is one big loser here, lemme tell you. So, I should be letting him put me down so I can get what I ask for? You know what? Fuck him, that’s what.

Next time I see him I says, “What do you mean by all that crap yesterday?”

“What crap is that, son?” he asks mildly.

“All that guilt crap? Who do you think you are, laying that crap on me? So then you expect me to ask you nicely for what I want. Well, dig, fat boy. I want you in an icebox with the power turned up all the way. I want you sitting on tacks in a world of tacks that extend all the way to the horizon. I want your beard on fire, your stupid red suit run through the wrong cycle and come out looking like its made of crinkle chips, you crapulous crud.”

“Son, why don’t you buzz off or something. You could buzz off. That’s a good thing for you to do.”

I pointed the Finger of Doom at him. It is a long finger, an adamantine finger, this Finger of Doom of mine. It is a finger that you cannot fly from into a land of homegrown tomatoes or thoughts of thy neighbor’s ass. No, no. You’re doomed, daddy-O, when that one casts its long shadow over your smug face, saying, “Hey! Kingfish. Tonight you sleep alone.”

Yeah, so I tell him, “OK. OK, big guy. I’ll buzz off for you. But I’ll be back. This ain’t over yet. Just you wait and see.”

That’s when I know that Fate has me by the balls. It’s helping me along, I can feel it. A big warm breath of Fate gently pushes me along, pushes me right into the door of a gun shop. Oh, yes. A gun shop, whoopy! Wall to wall guns. Rifles, cannon, bazookas, Uzis. Then a long glass case with the lovely killer pistolas, Mister, the BANG BANG guns you want from a man. Oh, and holsters, god damn it. The tooled leather, studded and beaded and bedazzled, place for a monogram, even a name if it’s a short one, Tex or something, maybe just “Kid”. I like that. Kid. Gun first, though. Let’s see, let’s see. There’s gangster models, little chickenshit Derringers, big ole Magnums I figure for stupid, but then, but then … well, dang it all if it ain’t the venerable cattleman’s friend, the 44.40 of yore, which is class, Jack, I ain’t bullshittin.

Espying me, the proprietor says, “You look like man knows his ordnance.”

“I am a man of purpose,” I told him.

“A tall man.”

“Lean and mean.”

“Not bad looking.”

“Rugged more than handsome, wouldn’t you say?”

“I can go with that. Yeah. Rugged.”

“And I have the look of a stranger in town.”

“Yeah. That, too.”

“OK, ring ‘er up. And that holster there. Cut me a moniker on it. I want “Kid” there on it.”

“Well, my K knife’s busted. Can you think of something else. Initials? What’s your name.”

“Dunno,” I told him.

“So you’re the famous Man Who Don’t Know His Name.”

“Yeah. That’s me. How ‘bout it? What can you do with that?”

“Well, simple. Put a X there? How are you for an X in that place?”

“Nope. Rings false. Has implications I can’t live up to.”

“Well. Maybe just leave it blank, then. Folks’ll get the point. They see a guy, he’s tall and lean and mean and more rugged than handsome, they figure, Why that must be The Man Don’t Know His Name.”

“Sure looks like him,” I go along.

“Has the walk.”

“The talk.”

“He don’t say much. Leave out that talk stuff. He don’t say much. That’s how it should be.”

“How it is, Mister. Like you say. Just like you say.”

“Well, how ‘bout you just put an O there. Got an O knife?”

“I surely do.”

“That can be for Zero, dig? It can be interpreted that way.”

“Some would agree. I would. Others, maybe they sort of scratch their heads and wonder, ‘Is that an O or a Zero? What do you think, Clarence?’ ‘I figure it for an O.’ ‘Just an O? What’s that stand for?’ ‘Well, maybe for something unsayable.’ ‘Unspeakable.’ ‘Filthy dirty.’ ‘Vile, fetichistic, the stuff of dreams in a low bar at the end of the universe.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Yeah. I’m agreein with ya.’ It could be like that, am I right?”

“Could be. Figure it’ll work?”

“I figure. Them as don’t get it, well, all the worse for them. For they don’t know they are looking upon the Man Who Don’t Know His Name and might misspeak themselves. You know how people are. ‘Hey dude, where you get them artificial shoes?’ So you have to turn to them and give your enigmatic smile, and either they trifle with you further or they get it who you are. But this here?”

He withdraws the venerable pistol and holds it up before me. “This is what awaits triflers,” he says. “Do I not speak the truth here?”

“I feel that you do. I sense that about you.”

“Well, then. Let’s outfit you in a suitable way and get you stalking the streets of this one Wi-Fi town, seeking Truth, Justice, and the American Way.”

“What’s all that?”

“All what?”

“All that you just said.”

“Dunno. It’s a cowboy thing. Long time ago thing. Nobody rightly remembers.”

“Well. I’ll remember.”

“Good for you, son.”



* * *



So I shot the son of a bitch.

I stood in line with the gun concealed in my duster. The others paid me little notice. Figured me for a store detective, possibly a kid from another planet. “Nah, that ain’t from no other planet, dude,” one of them said. “That’s what you call bad news wearing artificial shoes.” “Got a point,” said another. “Could account for his unnatural height. Kids don’t get that high around here. Mom says it’s all the sushi. Sitting across from her my father, who is short and fat, sings, ‘Show me the way to the next sushi bar!’ and they both laugh a great deal about that, slobber all over the food. I don’t get it. I don’t understand them half the time. Anybody’s from another planet it’s my parents.” “Yeh, well my parents are from hell, so there. Ever read that Cocteau shit? Les Parents Terribles? Yeah, so that’s my parents.” “So, maybe this kid’s from hell, too.” “Don’t think so. Heaven is in his eyes. You don’t get that effect when you’re from hell. That’s a known thing in science.” “You believe in science? What an asshole. You know how many cool points you just lost? Science. What are you, a particle weighing boy? Peekaboo universes jumping in and out of existence through black holes? Up from apes? Shit, man, anybody’s looking knows apes are better. What an asshole.”

But there is a low rumbling of an approaching elevated train. That’s my signal. When the big old thing comes thundering overhead I rush forward, gun drawn, pushing everybody aside.

“You’re not supposed to butt in line,” someone reminds me.

I stand before him. Santa Clause. He has just let a girl down off his lap, which is wet, and is about to take a quick little snort when he gets it. What’s happening here. Who I am and what I’m going to do.

“Didn’t I take your order a while back there, squirt?” he says. His eyes start from their spheres and roll like roulette wheels. “Think you can pull a fast one on old Santa? Well, let me tell you …”

“No, no,” I says. “I’ll do the telling. I’m here to do the telling. And this is what I must say. You, Santa, are a responsible Myth, the Stuff of Legend, That Which Keeps a Boy Marching to the Same Old Drummer. But you think it’s OK to just guilt a guy like that, to put him through all that police procedural crap. Wants to know if on the night of such and such you finished your peas and carrots, did the dishes as required, folded all the newspapers into paper airplanes just the way Dad wants ‘em so he can play war with the fireplace. You do your homework? The one with all the mix and match – the Meter Reader’s job description is? The official duties of a Cockroach Wrangler are? When you have a wife, will you stop beating her? You mow the lawn? Take out the trash? You collect your cool points, call em in to Number Crunch, win a free prize? I doubt that. Can’t say I believe that. You don’t look like the right kind of kid to me. Something all sideways about you. Something all mislabeled and poisoning the old Populusque. Problem boy. Boy with funny ideas rolling around loose in his head and making him hear things … Have I covered it? Isn’t that one of your standard raps? Boy goes away from you feeling so worthless he don’t deserve nothing but a day fulla Rossini overtures played on a million hurdy-gurdies, or Miss Black’s long vampire nails run down the blackboard as she says, ‘Thus we see how Pythagoras imposed the Harmonic upon a delinquent Universe.’”

“Look, son,” he says, “look here, now. I got business here. So you … well, you just go on. You just go fishing. Ever think of that? You go on and go fishing. That’s a good thing to do, isn’t it? What I always do when I’m upset. I just grab me a quart a whiskey and a dozen baloney sandwiches and I just … well, I just go fishing, is what. That’ll straighten you out. Now you get along now, you hear?”

“Smile when you say that,” I told him, and let her rip. Several holes appeared. Then
he busted wide open and party favors shot forth. Little kids ran up and started yelling, “I want the red one,” – “Fuck off, you like the blue,” – “The red, I want the red, I shall have the red,” – “No, the blue, you are allergic to the red, see, already you’re breaking out, but here’s a striped, trade you a striped for a red one,” – “Get your own red one, I already wet on it.”

But I was already running. And I’ll keep on running, run all down the days and all the years, finding no resting place, no food or shelter within the borders of the Empire. I bear the mark. It showed up on my forehead moments afterwards. It is a sort of hoof print, cloven, with the brand name of the Demiurge, owner and maker of all things, the whole works, the mess in your room, your smelly wife, the drifting dogs, wens, fogs, dirigibles. You must take care not to let it show. Do not go bareheaded in the sight of God. Pass swiftly, in a cloak and flat top hat. Keep that gun loaded, always. Be ready to fire upon all those who would show you kindness. All those who would smile and lick your nose. All cab drivers, desperate pilgrims yearning for Happy Hour, the Dogs of War, the Wings of Song. Beware, O Son of the Morning, always beware.

(This story first appeared in The Blotter)