‘It’s Dad,’ says Freddie.

Bobby’s going to take some convincing, being far from the sharpest knife in the drawer ’n’ all. Hell—he’s not even in the drawer (neither is the knife, but we’ll get to that). ‘But… all them prezzies we got last year—how would Dad have managed that on his own?’

‘Duh. Mum helps. And it’s “Those prezzies.”’

‘I posit that you included an explanatory-yet-altogether-humourless faux-correction lest the reader considers my clumsy vernacular a reflection upon the self-indulgent author’s grasp of grammar.’ Bobby’s only six, but talks like a fifty-year-old woman. Funny, that. ‘And if it is him, why does he dress up? We’re not supposed to see him.’

‘Maybe coz if he catches us watching, he can just go “Ho-ho-ho!” or whatever. Didn’t ya notice the cushions missing off the sofa? They’re under his costume.’ (Why is the dude always on the porky side? Why not have Slender-Claus for a change? –Ed.)

There’s rustling, next. And crinkling: the paper-wrapped packages are being de-sacked and placed by the fire. Even though they don’t have a fire. And if they did, it wouldn’t be advisable to put the presents anywhere near it, what with it being a BIG BURNY DEATHFLAME HAZARD ’n’ shit. Under the tree would make more sense. Doombrain. (Me, not you. Although…*)

*Depends who’s reading.

Twigging on to the shuffling boy-feet upstairs, Dad plonks the presents by the fire under the tree, shushes himself like a gilded pisshead, and scurries behind the living room door.

‘That’s it!’ says Fred, who’s just this minute shortened his name. ‘What’s it?’ asks Bob, in italics.

‘I’m going downstairs for proof. Stay hidden, but open our door a crack, watch from under the blankets.’

‘What if he gets past you and heads up here? It’s dark! I won’t be able to see!’

‘You’ll at least see a flash of red, even from bed,’ says Fred, coz I do like a triumvirate of shitty rhymes. ‘In which case, pretend to be asleep. Just keep your eyes peeled.’

            Fred takes the stairs three-at-a-time owing to his rather lengthy legs, which I probably should have mentioned earlier, but there’s no sign of Dad, so he heads back up.

            A scream comes next, followed by some unintelligible babbling, which I cannot even begin to spell. Bob’s at the bedroom door, bloodied and eyelidless, along with a telegraphed ending. The peelings are on the floor—somewhere. It’s impossible to make them out amongst all the gooey, fleshy splats coating the discarded blade.

Next comes the Santa Dash as Dad legs it upstairs. Mum’s already on the scene, because she does love a good Police Squad! reference.

           Bob whimpers. ‘Y-you told me to k-keep my eyes p-peeled. But it’s okay, bruh. I believe you, now. I saw the red.’

           ‘It’s a good job I didn’t tell him to keep his ear to the ground!’ says Fred, with a giggle.

‘LOL,’ says Mum, who speaks in lazy, contrived initialisms.

‘Ho-ho-ho!’ laughs Dad.