SANTA SUBTERFUGE
By Alex Ebenstein
Timmy promised his parents he wouldn’t leave his room all night. The lie seemed inconsequential compared to the rest of what he had planned.
The alarm clock chirped at midnight, but Timmy wasn’t sleeping. He’d had a busy night already. He pulled back the covers and swung his stockinged feet to the hardwood floor. As rehearsed every night for the past week, Timmy tiptoed silently out of his room, down the hall, and paused at the top of the stairs that led to his quarry.
Timmy angled an ear to the downstairs living room. Whispers, quiet shuffling, and hushed giggles confirmed the plan was in motion.
He took the steps slowly, waiting for the moment. Halfway down, two steps before his view to the Christmas tree would clear, the moment came. The metallic clang of teeth slamming together. The heavy thump of solid oak hitting the carpeted floor.
He arrived at the opening and saw his work. Everything unfolded as planned, except for one minor change: who ended up caught in the beartrap and who got pinned under the bookshelf.
Speaking just loud enough to interrupt their screams of pain and confusion, he said, “Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad.”
The silence was brief. They whipped their heads around to see their son, predator standing over prey, then erupted. Timmy descended the rest of the stairs, ignoring their yelling, pleas, and cries.
“No Santa,” He smirked and shook his head, an act of unhappy resoluteness. “So, what else have you lied about?”