First Letter to Santa


“C’mon Nate, honey,” Carol Daniels said to her eight-year-old son Nathan. “There are crayons and paper in front of you so you can write a letter to Santa telling him what you want.”

Nathan brushed his long brown hair away from his face and looked at his mom with his big blue eyes that seemed so sad and thoughtful.

“Will Santa really bring me what I want, what I really want?” Nathan said.

“I’m sure he’ll try his best dear,” Carol said.

“Okay, I’ll give it a shot then,” Nathan said. “But don’t peak at it, Mom,” He then started writing his letter to Santa.

* * * *

Christmas Day came and although there were numerous gifts for Nathan under the tree, Santa didn’t bring him what he wanted most. Nathan didn’t say a word, choosing instead to wait.

The next year Nathan couldn’t wait to write his letter to Santa. His mother was surprised to see how excited he was to write Santa. Carol’s curiosity was getting the better of her and when Nathan was sleeping she went and looked at the letter her son had left for Santa. It said simply:

Fuck U Santa,


                     Nathan Daniels

Mrs. Daniels was justifiably concerned but decided that it would be best not to say anything.

* * * *



A Pattern Emerges


Christmases came and went and still Nathan would write the same letter to Santa saying: ‘Fuck you Santa, sincerely Nathan Daniels’.

As the years went by Nathan grew up to be a handsome but spoiled and selfish man. Nothing and no one seemed to be able to get past his beautiful but tough as stone exterior. He had worked hard on his body and looks, but not on his character. His body was toned and cut and he had abs most men would be envious of, but no heart. His hair, kept long across his forehead so it often covered his eyes, was dark brown and lustrous, but he was rude and snarly. His mother died when he was twenty-three and that was the first time anyone had ever seen him shed a tear or express emotion.

Months later he sat in his living room in front of the warm fire emanating from the burning logs in his large stone fireplace. He sat back in his comfortable plush couch dressed in silk pajamas and a thick robe. He stretched his feet kept warm in his slippers and began to write his letter to Santa.

 Fuck U Santa,


             Nathan Daniels


Far away in the North Pole Santa was not having a good year. Mrs. Claus had gained a significant amount of weight and fell through the ice while skating on the pond. The elves were too small to haul her out and she passed away. Poor Santa was left to fend for himself in more ways then one and he was tired and frustrated. Not to mention he’d worn out his right hand from having to take care of his more personal needs at night. Using his left hand was just no good.

He was in a particularly bad mood when he found Nathan Daniels yearly greeting.

“I think it’s about time Santa paid you a visit, naughty boy,” Jolly old St. Nick said out loud in his workroom.

* * * *



Santa Visits


Nathan Daniels looked over at his Christmas tree and then went back to his glass of wine. He didn’t know why he still bothered putting up a tree. At midnight he held his wine glass up towards the tree and made a toast.

“Fuck you, Santa,” Nathan said then stretched back on his coach and returned to his book.

That’s when he heard it, a deep commanding voice coming from the fireplace. It sounded like an angry roar.

“No! Santa’s come to fuck you Nathan Daniels!”

The fire died away and black dust filled the room. A cold chill went up Nathan Daniels spine and then he saw him. There he was, the man himself in all his Christmas glory, Santa Claus. He must’ve stood at least six foot two and had a beard and mustache white as snow. A thick, black, shiny leather belt went ‘round a large belly. His suit was red with white fur trim, and dusty black boots covered large feet. Santa looked Nathan Daniels straight in the eyes, his baby blues stern and frightful.

“They call me Santa Claus and I’m here to deal with one particularly naughty boy!”

* * * *

 To be continued

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