When the chill got to him, he pulled the Santa suit back on. His fingers discovered a deep secret pocket in the pants—for St. Nick’s hip flask? Haha. He slipped in his gun. Then, with the resignation of a man who’d made no plans for the rest of the year, he reattached the itchy white beard and stared into the mirror. He was Santa Claus, and he would save the day.

He armed the alarm system before setting foot outside, and circled the pitch-black perimeter of his house—no sign of forced entry. Somebody’s orange tabby squawked in terror as he bolted down the driveway.

On the sidewalk, a squat Salvadoran in a gaucho hat was selling battery-operated wands with colorful whiskers. He nodded at Raymond in commercial complicity—it’s Christmas, amigo, let’s milk these suckers for all they’re worth.

“Did you see anyone walking onto my property?”

“No, no, Santa.”

Across the street, the Ireland gals were emerging from their house, followed by a trio of paunchy, lobster-faced guys. He saw Mary-Sue pointing him out to her friends, tee-heeing with great amusement. He was the unicorn she’d lassoed and tricked into costume. He gave her the finger when none of them were looking.

Raymond moved quickly along, avoiding all eye contact. Next door, on the Parks’ front yard, an open house sign swung forlornly in the breeze, joints squeaking. Good fucking riddance, he thought, and walked on. House after house, nativity dioramas competed for God’s love: some had two Virgins, one had three. The secularists were also out in force, with their giant inflatable snow globes featuring Snoopy and Woodstock. Bulb-encrusted reindeer bobbed their heads in a simulacra of animal indifference—he had to resist pulling out the gun and popping them like a kid at a shooting gallery. Funny how much jollier he felt having a gun in his pocket. Why hadn’t anyone told him about this years ago? Packing heat cools heads. Now there’s a bumper sticker.

Cars jammed the street, crawling, headlights off, with rubbery baby faces smooshed against the windows. And on every corner, cabals clustered. They sang an old Bing Crosby song about conspiring and dreaming by the fire, and facing the plans that they’ve made.

“Mr. Claus?” A Boy Scout ran up breathlessly behind Raymond and tugged at his sleeve. “There are six children . . . waiting to have an audience with you, sir. They’ve been, they’ve been waiting . . . fifteen minutes, sir.” Raymond nodded but continued to walk on past the Santa booth, scanning the street for the hooded prowler. “Mr. Claus?”

He heard a little girl cry, “See-anta!” from across the way but knew better than to turn. “See-aantaa?”

Something caught his eye. With a leap and a bound, he cut across some grinch’s bare yard and stormed toward an unlit, unloved dead-end street named Des Moines.