I padded into the living room, and spotted Santa Clause. He was lying on the floor, blood oozing out of a large gash on his thick neck, staining his snowy-white beard the same color as his suit. His eyes were wide with a look of horror, and his face deathly pale. I grabbed his wrist, and checked for a pulse; Nothing.
Santa Clause was dead, in my living room.
His sack of presents lay next to his lifeless body, and clutched in his left hand, was his list. The list that he'd so carefully made, and painstakingly checked.
Twice.
I pryed it from his cold, beefy fingers, and took a look. As soon as I saw how many names were left, I knew: I would find his murderer, and bring him to justice, that killer of joy, that distroyer of Christmas!
But first, I had a job to do.
I was going to finish poor Santa's noble, hard work...
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I LOVE this story! Not until I read it this very moment did I realize the absolute awesomeness involved with writing this. I like how you made "Twice." a whole sentence of its own, on a whole line of its own. Its kinda gross how you say his fingers are beefy, but its also funny (and I think it's true). I like how you use very dry-humor in your stories; you don't try to make things funny, but they end up that way.
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