He sat on an old folding chair in the middle of the prison commons. A line of thieves, murderers and accountants-gone-bad snaked through the large room. At the front was a midget wearing a large sock as a hat. He led the prisoner who was first in line to Santa.
The prisoner, a drug dealer, sat upon Santa's waiting knee.
"Ohhhh," Santa grunted, "You're a big boy?"
"My mamma used to take me to see you every year, Santa," the prisoner said. "I always asked you for video games."
"Is that what you want this year?" Santa asked. He wouldn't dare ask if the prisoner had been good this year. He had already made that mistake. A prison war broke out. Lucky for Santa, the resident Mafia guy had broken it up. And then gave Santa his personal protection.
Everyone in the prison kinda liked Santa. Even despite the fact that he was accused of indecency with children.
"You're Santa Claus," the Mafia guy said to Santa. "St. Nick! There was never a dirty saint. Plus, I owe you one. You gave me my first gun when I was six."
Santa remembered it well. Little Tony had written him such a nice letter that year. And Little Tony had been so good! He always helped old women across streets and he dressed in suits.
Santa didn't think it odd for a young boy to ask for a toy gun. The violin case to put it in, though, should've been a red flag. Santa made a mental note to stop giving guns to boys and girls in the future. If he had a future.
***
Santa walked through the cafeteria line. He filled his plate with the sloppy potatoes and the chicken-fried chicken. The prisoner serving dessert gave him an extra cookie and a wink. Santa smiled and continued through the line.
As he walked towards a table to sit, the prisoners separated to allow him easy passage. Santa sat down and before he even picked up his fork several prisoners had brought him small cartons of milk and extra cookies.
In prison, Santa was a god.
He filled his days with taking Christmas wish requests and watching Law & Order reruns.
Santa was hoping that he would be granted a mistrial and he would be back at the North Pole in time for his annual flight. Rumor had it that was incriminating evidence against him, but it all mattered on how the prosecutions spun it.
Santa's nights were filled with whittling wooden toys out of scraps that prisoners and guards brought him. He had made several rocking horses, a nutcracker and a small electric chair just for humor's sake.
The morning of Santa's first (and hopefully last) hearing, he had whittled a small gavel that he left behind in his cell.
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