Santa, The Hitman?

This story contains reference to physical violence and gore, although in a darkly comedic and absurd context that deals more with the moral and emotional repercussions rather than explicit descriptions. Reader discretion is advised.

The hospice smells like antiseptic and failed dreams. A Christmas-themed air freshener dangles from the IV stand, swaying in time with my father’s mechanical wheezing. It smells like cinnamon. And regret. The fluorescent lights hum, drowning out the morphine’s slow drip.

Hi, I’m the man who never amounted to anything. The trophy-less disappointment. If life is a race, I’m the guy who tripped in the first ten feet and never got back up. Thirty-five years old, still renting, and my most significant contribution to society is a viral video of me accidentally setting fire to a microwave burrito. That’s me. Proud owner of a pile of unwashed dishes and a credit score so low it could run for public office.

I sit slouched in the corner, watching my dad suck on life like it's a particularly stubborn milkshake. He's huge, round face, round belly, round everything. A human snowman melted into a hospice bed. The kind of guy who built his whole life on being likable. For thirty years, he played Santa Claus at the mall. Not just any Santa, mind you. He was the Santa. The one people drove four counties over to see. His face still pops up on Christmas cards across the Midwest. A local legend. A walking, jolly Norman Rockwell painting.

And me? I’m the guy who gave him a $10 Amazon gift card for Christmas. You’d think that’s why he’s dying, the look he gave me when he opened it.

He motions me closer with a shaking hand, like some sort of rusty wind-up toy. "Come here, kiddo."

"Yeah, sure," I say, dragging the chair closer. It screeches against the linoleum, like its legs are fighting with the floor. "What is it this time? Another story about how you single-handedly saved Christmas at the mall in '93?

His laughter erupts like a wheeze jammed in a blender. It drowns out as he turns deadpan serious and starts boring into my eyes. "I got a confession for ya, kiddo. Something huge."

I lean back. Here we go again. "Oh great. You saved Christmas again?"

He laughs and shakes his head. His smile is faint, but it's still there fissuring the old plaster of his smile. "No. Just hear me out, kiddo. I murdered people. I was an assassin."

The words hit me like a sucker punch to the ribs. His eyes twinkle with something far from Christmas cheer.

For a second, I didn't breathe. Not because I believed him, but because some part of me wanted to. Like even in death, Dad had to be bigger than life. Then the absurdity of it hit me and I laughed. Hard. Too hard. 'Jesus, Dad. Did the morphine knock your last screw loose?

"You don't think a fellow with fake snow in his eyebrows could carry out a clean kill, do you?" Dad's grin spreads like butter on burnt toast as his cheeks wobble like he's auditioning for Jell-O's next ad campaign.

I stare. Words feel stuck somewhere between my brain and my tongue, like traffic on the I-5 during rush hour. I've got a list of things I never expected to hear from my father. "I love you." "I'm proud of you." "There's a secret trust fund hidden in the walls." But this? This takes the cake. And then assassinates the baker.

"You're screwing with me," I finally manage. "Is this one of those morphine fever dreams? Should I call the nurse? Blink once for yes."

Dad coughs out a laugh, deep and phlegmy, and shakes his head.

"No joke. I was good at it too. Seasonal work was the perfect cover. Everyone sees Santa as a big, harmless teddy bear. No one suspects Santa Claus of carrying a nine-millimeter Glock."

I blink. Hard. He's lost it. The man's gone off the deep end, dragged the Christmas tree, the reindeer, and the inflatable snowman with him.

"I had a code," he says, his voice dropping to a low rasp like he's auditioning for The Godfather. "Never moms. Never kids. And no one who liked Christmas.

I rub my temples. “So you’re telling me all those ‘business trips’ to Reno weren’t about fixing mall contracts?”

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’ like he’s proud. “They were about fixing people. Your old man was a regular Mr. Clean.”