CLAUS {A Xmas Tale}

'Twas the night before Christmas when the first fatality occurred. Bertram Bourgeois was busily cleaning out the flue in his chimney. His wife, Betty, had been after him for weeks to do it. "Clean out that flue, goddamnit it!" she would say as often as her wifely whims prompted her. "Yeah, yeah," Bertram would reply. But he never got around to it until that fatal night, December 24th. How little did he suspect it would kill him! All things considered though, it was probably better than hearing any more of Betty's harangues. Yet it was neither his wife's minimal persuasions nor her maximum threats that led poor old Bertram to his death that night. It was only when he had lit his first fire of the year, when the smoke backed up and nearly asphyxiated them both, that he began to see his wife's point. So there he was, inside the chimney, jabbing about with the poker. He didn't pay any attention to the faint jiggling noise—not even as it grew nearer and louder. He didn't hear the baritone voice cry "Ho ho ho!"—he was too busy "cleaning out the goddamn flue." Bertram had only enough time to look up and see the great red figure bearing down upon him. And that was the last thing he ever saw. The Aroostook County Sheriff's Department arrived quickly on the scene. "I understand there's a body here," said the dynamic but nitpicking sheriff, Justus Bedamd, as he swaggered into the Bourgeois home. "Where is it?" he demanded.

"You're standing on it," replied Betty as naturally as possible. And sure enough there was old Bertram Bourgeois flatter than a day-old opened bottle of soda pop." "Why he's flatter than a day-old opened bottle of soda pop," remarked the sheriff, who knew a good analogy when he found one. "He certainly is," agreed an impressed Betty. "What do you think got him?"

"Obviously… a typhoon," Bedamd observed. Five correspondence courses in criminal detection gave him the experience necessary to make such an evaluation. "Sorry to disagree with you, sheriff," said Gregory Greenpiece (no listed occupation), who had quietly followed the sheriff into the Bourgeois house, "But this is obviously the work of a Santa…" "What?!!" guffawed Bedamd. He couldn't help but laugh. Here was that idiot, Greenpiece, who had no listed occupation, who was unemployed and didn't even have a job (since those things usually go together), telling him that Bertram Bourgeois' death was caused by a Santa! "Get off it, Greenpiece!" he sneered. "It was a typhoon. Now don't bother me! I've got to phone this into Augusta. They'll fall out of their chairs when they learn a typhoon's come through good old Caribou, Maine." Bedamd hurled one last hurl of contempt at Greenpiece: "You dolt! Don't you realize there hasn't been a Santa spotted around here since I was six years old?" "Nevertheless," said Greenpiece firmly. "I maintain that it was a Santa. Didn't you notice all those gaily wrapped packages covering old Bertram Bourgeois?" "By God, he's right!" though the sheriff. "Maybe I'd better hold back on this typhoon alert..." "You know, sheriff, you have no alternative," said Greenpiece, interrupting the sheriff's thoughts. "What are you talking about now?" demanded Bedamd. "This is December 24th, sheriff! Don't you know what that means?? How many more will have to meet this horrible fate before you do something about it? You've got to close the town down!" "Excellent rhyme, Greenpiece, but lousy reasoning. I can't shut down the town!" "Well then, move Christmas to some other day… like June 9th," Greenpiece was becoming increasingly upset. Sheriff Bedamd was going to suggest that Greenpiece take a cold shower… in Antarctica, when an emergency call came through his radio. Within minutes, the two had sped across town to the residence of Morris and Muriel Mugwump. Morris was sitting on his porch as they drove up. He face appeared incredulous. "What happened?!" Greenpiece asked running toward the sorrowful figure. "I can't believe it! I just can't believe!" Mugwump cried, evidently not believing. "My wife. Muriel. She was there one moment… and then… Bafff!! Trampled on by a herd of reindeer!" "What are you jabbering about?" Bedamd asked in his most compassionate voice. "It was Muriel," Mugwump replied. "She was up on the roof… Lobbing snowballs at passing motorists just as she does every Christmas Eve. Well, there she was. Up on the roof, suddenly out of nowhere came this jingling… and then? Bafff!! Trampled on by a herd of reindeer. "Just the facts, please," encouraged the sheriff. "You mean your wife…" "Yes! Muriel!... That's her name!!... There one minute and then bafff!! Trampled on by a herd of reindeer. Sheriff Bedamd had no alternative but concede the evidence: A killer Santa was on the loose. The problem was what to do about it. "You've got to do something, sheriff!" cried Greenpiece. "This man's wife was sleighed in cold blood!" "Yes!!" agreed Mugwump. "…Bafff!!" ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ "Well, what do you think of it so far," asked Virginia, her soft brown eyes gazing at me lovingly. I didn't have the heart to tell her I couldn't use it. "It's a very well written piece," I replied, "but I'm sorry…" "You mean you're not going to use it??" "I'm afraid not," I said. "You see, Virginia, The Sagebrush has an elaborate code of conduct, to which all of its writers must adhere. As a simple (but talented) writer, I too must strictly follow these guidelines." "I don't think I understand," said Virginia still obviously heartbroken. "It's right here," I pointed out, pointing to the specific Guideline. "Article IV, Section 1: No writer shall write humorously about the assassination of a North Korean leader (because we are not stupid), nor shall any writer willingly defame George Washington, Albert Schweitzer, Mother Theresa, or…" "But that's ridiculous!" she said. "I'm sorry," I implored. "I have no alternative. Absolutely no defamation of Washington, Schweitzer…" "I can't believe it!" she interrupted. "You mean to tell me there actually is…" I nodded. "Yes, Virginia. There is a Santa Clause."