Poetic Justice for Santa

Part 1 of my 'Justice Series' on Sulekha.
Click Here to read the same story on Sulekha.
feel the bullet pierce my chest. Time seems to slow down this instant. I can feel it enter me layer by layer. I look down to see the red fluid fill the floor. The realization comes first, then the pain, then numbness. I can't feel my legs; the rest of me goes down as my eyes seem to focus on the nozzle of the smoking gun. I feel my body and then my head hit the floor hard. The bullet was not even meant for me.

It was not meant to end like this. I should have, must have gone in a blaze of glory. I had fantasized about a shootout in my building. It was to be me against all of the city's law officers, several Davids against this Goliath. I am a legend, the stuff you read of in novels. I am in the league of all the intellectuals that every society shuns. Truly, and I hope they will discover my talents when they clear my room. I have left photographs of those works of art.

I lived in an old dilapidated building (if you can call it that) almost in the dead center of the shopping district. I am surprised that they have not yet knocked down this monstrosity. I had cons and druggies all around me, sharing this wonderful dwelling that fate had thrust upon me. Next-door lived a fine piece of work. I am proud to say that I did not create this one. It drinks at night and snorts during the day. Somehow it finds time and partners that help it procreate, giving this world and all our tax dollars a cause for charity.

Apparently our tax dollars were not enough for the creature's indulgences that those partners I told you about visited it often, uttering curses I will not repeat. Those partners all had one thing in common. They were all female, young, slim, actually undernourished and dressed in rags. Most of them sported a child in one arm and used the same limited vocabulary. It's a variation of the same set of sentences that bombard my esteemed neighbor each time. The vocabulary and expressions, amongst other things, include good-for-nothing, riffraff, deadbeat, 'not a real man' and 'Wish you were dead'.

I tried not to take notice but it is hard. Often, I was woken up in the dead of night by arguments that this man had with a new partner he probably picked up in some hole or trailer park. Even if he was by himself, he had one too many and beat the walls with his fists. My complaining about the noise was of little use. He just told me to fuck off. My only salvation was to focus on creating my works of art. I thought that maybe I must use male canvasses too.

Two weeks ago, I had completed what would be my final work of art. I had left it in a dumpster several blocks away. I hoped the law would find this one and give me a challenge for a change.

That night I stayed awake till 5:30 am hoping for a sudden newsbreak. I could afford to stay up late and wait. The following day was a Sunday and I was not expected to report to work at the restaurant until Monday afternoon. The news flash did not come until 3 pm the next day. However, I would say that it was worth the wait.

The well-dressed and sexy newscaster began. “Here is a newsflash. Police say a body was dumped in a dumpster in the heart of the shopping district. It is of a 21-year-old woman who has been identified to be Betsy Yokum, a graduate student who was on her way to evening classes. She had been stabbed four times in the chest and her throat had been slit from ear to ear. Police say that the horrendous crime bears similarities to the Santa Clause murders of last year and the year before. Police warn that Killer Santa is on the prowl again.”

This time, as with the last two times, they did not speak of the Christmas cards. I read somewhere that the cops hide a few details in crimes like this. I liked the name the media had given me. Killer Santa. It had a nice ring to it. Of course there were similarities to all those Santa Clause murders. They were all my works of art.

The newscaster said, “We have no idea who the killer is or what he looks like. Police have hired an expert criminal profiler who has presented us with these details. The killer is an intelligent male, who was probably abused as a child. The abuse to him may have been physical, psychological or sexual. He is traumatized by some event in his past that occurred around Christmas.”

I remember that Christmas vividly. My dad had struck me after striking my mom down unconscious. All this, because I asked for a remote control car that the girl next door had. She was no angel. She gave her parents so much trouble. Unlike me. I was the child my parents should have been proud to have. I was well mannered and mild tempered. Now close to thirty, guess how many gifts I've received from them for Christmas?

The newscaster went on. “He probably lives in the shopping district or close to it. Police have issued a warning that women must never walk alone near the shopping district after dark. Please take someone with you… And in other news today…”

I eyed the newscaster. She was all woman. Unlike my other works of art, she had full breasts, a little fat at the hips. Delightfully attractive. Maybe a work of art in the making. “Maybe I'll give myself that gift next year,” I thought. “I need to find out where she lives.”

A week went by. Time at the restaurant passed as usual. Renee, my boss, was her usual self. She loved talking about the news. Gory details and all. If only she was younger, I could use her to show the world my artistic talents.

The following Monday I sat in my bedroom, reviewing my progress. I had four trophies in the last three years. The first time was two holiday seasons ago. I was coming home as usual by bus. There were two of them and they sat in front of me. Two canvasses waiting for my masterstroke. Okay, a few strokes. Two canvasses just waiting to be painted upon. One was tall and slim. The other one also fit the same description. Except that canvas one was brown haired and fair skinned. The second one however was black haired and a little darker. I sat behind them listening. One spoke of a boyfriend she had dumped. The second spoke of her 'bastard' boss. Two naughty little girls. Santa was going to give them what they deserved. They got off the bus close to where I lived. This was my Christmas day. I followed them. They took the alleyway. Yes, the dark, empty alleyway. My heart skipped a beat. I was shaking with excitement. There was really a Santa Clause. He had not forgotten about Killer Santa!

They had no idea what has coming. I was upon them in a jiffy. Wielding two knives, I fell upon them. The brown haired one was tough. I must give it to her. She tried to fight me off. The other bitch panicked. If I had not brought my knife down soon enough, she would have woken up the whole neighborhood. The brown haired one bit my arm. A few drops of my blood fell on the ground. Thanks to her resourcefulness, CSI now had my DNA. I managed to fend her off and stabbed her a few more times. When it was finally done, I searched the other one's knapsack. I found a few Christmas cards. I threw the two corpses in a dumpster nearby. I wrote Christmas greetings on two cards, and tossed them into the dumpster. The two cards stuck to each of their faces, thanks to the clotting blood. I thought it was a nice touch. It would give me a new identify. It was then that Killer Santa was born.

The following year, on Christmas Eve, I got my blessing. It was as if God had recognized my talents and had decided to give me a gift. This walking canvas came to where I worked. Man, I loved God. The rest is history. I saw her leave, feigned an upset stomach with my boss and got off in time to track her down on the street and follow her. This time I'll spare you the details. Police found her and, once again, they found my Christmas card on her too. Quite rightfully, they gave Killer Santa the credit.

Well, that brings us to today. I was woken up early by one of my neighbour's lady friends. I heard her delightful language, and then there was the sound of broken China. Then I heard her say, “You'll pay for this, you fucking bastard.” I heard him yelling a few obscenities. Then I heard a door slam. All this was music to my ears at 4:30 am.

I got out of bed at about 6 am. (It was impossible to sleep after that episode.) I showered and made myself breakfast. I watched TV, mostly flicking channels, smoking the last cigarette in the pack. I had to go down to the corner store to get a refill. What do you know! It was Christmas. Programs on TV were all of the touchy, feely genre, happy families at dinner, kids playing in the snow, etc. One channel had 'It's a Wonderful Life' early in the morning. There was a reporter on TV talking about the ice sculpture contest that was happening in downtown Boston. It was unfortunate that my work would not even get that kind of recondition. I would be labeled sick and probably transported to some funny farm. Well that could only happen if they got me alive. I smiled at the thought. I threw a T-shirt on myself and fished out my wallet from the pile of clothes on the floor. I found a five-dollar note in my wallet. It would be adequate for a pack. As I walked towards the door, I heard my neighbour's voice. Was he pleading? Not unusual. He was always pleading with the landlord at this time of the month. I opened the door and stepped out, bracing for the bitter cold wind to hit me. I did not see the landlord but a young girl. Just like one of the canvasses of the past. It was not just the cold that hit me.

I still gaze at the nozzle of the gun. I still cannot accept that my life here is gone. I was to go in a police encounter. I was to be the man who almost held back the police force in my city. Now, the papers and televisions would say that a stray bullet, a bullet fired by an out-of-control teenage mother, a bullet that was meant for her deadbeat lover, killed an unknown man. I close my eyes finding solace that someone would find those photos and knives in my closets. I could salvage some respect that way. They could get my DNA too and make comparisons. Some wise guy would be laughing. Some wise guy in blue would say that God did his hard work for him. Some wise guy would call this poetic justice.