I leave cookies for him because I know that's what the fat bastard wants. It's an old recipe that my grandmother taught me. Sugar cookies, with red and white sprinkles in the shape of candy canes.

I hide behind the couch. It takes a while but I know he's going to come. He always comes. At about midnight, the logs in my fireplace start to tremble. A puff of smoke appears and then I see him.

He's laughing, the jolly bastard. Laughing and carrying his horrible "gifts". He takes the bait right away, as I knew he would. His mouth is full of at least three cookies before he realizes something is wrong. He gags, chokes, and tries to shout.

I turn him over so he doesn't choke. I don't want him dead. Yet.

When he wakes he's tied to a chair with a bright light shining down on him. I'd gotten an ultra powered lightbulb to put in my standing lamp. I tilted it towards him

"Boy? Boy? What is this about?"

"I'll tell you Santa. It's about Christmas. 1985. I wanted a toy truck. A red one that had real working lights."

"Little Timmy?" He asks.

I pull down the lamp until I hear his cheek sizzle.

"You got me a pair of white socks Santa. No trucks or trains or toys at all. Socks."

"Well I'm sorry son but you see you needed those socks. All of yours were losing their elastic and had holes in them. I was
just trying to-hey!"

I tipped the chair over, leaving him to writhe on the ground.

Socks. He'd brought me socks for Christmas. The next day all my friends showed me their dolls and log cabin sets and toy trains. I'd held up the bag full of socks Santa left for me under the tree. I'd only had the socks. Just the horrible horrible socks.

But now I had Santa. For years I'd planned it. What I would do. How I would take my revenge. He would suffer for those socks. And maybe I'd be able to sleep at night without screaming. Maybe I'd be able to let go.