Twelve months after absconding with the grotto fund Roger’s luck finally ran out. Across continents and through complex transactions his pursuers had doggedly followed the money to a run-down warehouse on the outskirts of a one-horse town.
Armed with plastic Christmas tree branches, poised like pitchforks at a witch burning, the angry parents advanced.
Woefully out of shape, with an unkempt beard and a booze-fueled glow, Roger resembled a dishevelled version of the jolly fellow he’d pretended to be. Confused and disoriented by the feral cries for blood he fell back on muscle-memory and pottered outside to separate the naughty from the nice.
‘Ho ho ho,’ he bleated.
Written for: Friday Fictioneers