I shot Santa Clause. Yes, it was really him even though I didn't believe he existed. It was an accident... no, that's not right. I shot on purpose. I just didn't know it was him. I still think it's creepy that anyone can enter someone's home in the middle of the night uninvited.

He wasn't making much noise, I'll give him that. It was just his unlucky night. I woke up with the heebie-jeebies and couldn't go back to sleep. I got up and glanced at the clock. It was 3:07. Too damn early, but I had been anxious all week that the kids wouldn't have many gifts this Christmas. I lost my job a month ago, and there just wasn't any money.

At the top of the stairs on my way down to the kitchen I noticed a soft light moving in the living room. It could have been one the kids, but it could also be a burglar, and I wasn't going to take a chance. I tip-toed back to my bedside table and took the pistol from the drawer. Better a lion than a sheep.

The shape of the man moving below was much too big to be one of my kids.

"Stop right there," I yelled with a shaky voice.

He made a dash across the room... I found out later that he was heading for the chimney, but how could I know that? I figured he was going for some kind of weapon, so I shot him. It hit him in the... well... hinder region. His words weren't so jolly as he lay on the floor. They were really kind of nasty for such a legendary mellow fellow. He cursed like a drunken sailor, and believe me I know how sailors curse. Been there.

"You shot me, you..."

He didn't stop there, but his words weren't fair to my dear old mother.

"Keep talking like that, and I'll shoot you again."

"You're on my naughty list for the rest of your life, Norman Stiller."

I was taken aback that he knew my name, because I didn't recognize him at first. As I watched him roll around on the floor, I began to suspect he was the real Santa... red suit and hat with a cotton ball on its point. He didn't look like any of the pictures I had seen of him, but then hardly anyone recognizes me from my driver's license picture. The bag of spilled toys lying beside him were not any that I had bought.

"You're really him, aren't you? You really exist." My heart began to flutter. I shot him. I shot the most beloved man in the world. "Can I get you a towel for the wound?"

"A towel for my... you sadistic... Oh, hell, I guess it had to happen sometime."

He rolled over and pushed up onto his hands and knees then let out a groan as he struggled to his feet.

"No, I don't need a towel thank-you-very-much. I'm magic after all. The wound will heal and the blood will disappear soon. But I could use a drink."

"There's milk and cookies on the table over there."

"You're kidding, right? Milk? I was thinking something a bit stronger. I've just been shot."

"Oh, you mean a hard drink. Sure. But don't you have more presents to deliver."

"I'm magic, remember? It'll get done."

We drank all my bourbon, and swapped stories for hours. He's a nice old man, and he got merrier the longer we drank. When I poured the last drop, the bottle magically refilled. Soon my head swayed and my eyes got heavy. I slurred my words.

"Thank you, Santa, for the kid's presents."

"Tis the season," he said as he stood. "Thanks for the bourbon... and believing again. You'll get another job, Norman. If you can't trust Santa, who can you trust?"

He just disappeared like in a Star Trek transporter beam.

My wife thinks I found some way to buy the presents. My kids don't care where they came from. When I opened my present, I found a bloody bullet and a bottle of bourbon. I think he took me off the naughty list.