Connecticut Christmas (3 of 3)

The next morning we go to the mall. And we volunteer as elves. Which turns out is much easier than being hired as one. We have a post in SantaLand where the fake snow is and we have to make sure it stays there. It is boring.
There is a car that was being shown across our post but they are hauling it away today. The airbags are deployed and a man is leaving on a stretcher. I suppose that recall is really starting to hurt people.
I try to pass the time by watching people but I keep thinking about last night. I start to day dream and I walk up to him tell him who I am. He will try to get me to leave but I will snap off the glass candy cane sitting next to him and slice his throat. I guess he can’t rape girls when his throat is leaking on SantaLand’s snow.
I snap out of it and think for a bit.
Chew recites what he wants for Christmas, “Lotsa lego’s and a pair of scissors with the safety edges because I lost mine. And a glue stick because I ate mine and candy and baseball cards with gum because my cards were given to a man with a car and my dad. I want my dad for Christmas. But my dad is Santa so I wan t Santa.” Chew looks at me, “You think my mom knows that my dad is Santa?”
“I don’t know Chew. But we’re going to be leaving soon. Real soon Chew.”
“What about dad?” Chew asks.
“We’re going to meet him outside.”
Of coarse when I say meet I mean stab excessively. I have decided that I will kill him for sure. I buy a knife at a shit hole store later that day and head back to the mall before the old man gets out. I see him walk out the doors and I head toward him.
Chew asks, “What are you going to do to dad?”
“I’m sorry Chew, but I’m going to kill him.” I head after him but he is about 30 yards away. He is heading for his car and I figure I’ll meet him there.
Chew yells after me, “No don’t. Dad is Santa and we look alike and if you kill Santa he may not know which one of us is which and you will be on the naughty list but you look like me, so he may put me on the naughty list.” Chew screams, “Don’t kill Santa.”
Our dad, if you can call him that, crosses the parking lot and turns around when Chew yells. He sees me with my knife and looks wide-eyed.
A car hits our dad and mashes him under its tires. He is dead on contact. The boy who was driving was a student driver. He stares for a minute. He looks at the instructor, “Does this mean I . . .” his airbag goes off before he has a chance to finish.
Me and Chew stand there in awe that our father is dead. Neither of us knows what to say. Chew starts crying. We get in the car and start to leave the parking lot.
An old lady is trying to park her car and slowly pulls into a spot. We wait for her and she edges closer and closer. The tip of her bumper touches the car next to her and her airbag goes off. She slams the gas and rams several cars around her.
I’m sure she’s dead.
We head back to Connecticut and Chew sings Christmas songs the whole way there. It took about 5 minutes for me to get him to stop crying, all I had to do was explain to him that our dad wasn’t Santa. I told him that our dad died a painful death but Santa was still alive.
Chew was happy.