It's not about the money, I told myself.

It's not about the money, I told myself. But I knew it was. Jane was on her way to me now and all I could think of was how badly I wanted to

just hide in my room. I did not want her here. I paced back and forth around the room still thinking about the money. No, I decided that when Jane got here I’d tell her

I opened the door slowly and was blown away by what I saw, literally. Someone had torched my car. Great, just what I needed. As if things weren't going badly already. I saw

my left rear tire roll down the street and take out someone's mailbox. Quickly I turned and walked in the opposite direction, pretending to know nothing of the blazing vehicle and

the large chunk of suburbia it had ignited. I stopped, sighed, walked in the opposite direction again, slipping a cigarette into my mouth. I lit it at a burning tree and saunte

red off into the night, the wind blowing back my soot-covered trench coat. This mission had been a success. Although Fraiser would probably say it had been a failure. But fuck that

whiny neurotic collander-domed snob of a psychiatrist, I was enjoying this. I brushed off my coat & made my way to the fire escape. They'd never guess I went up the chimney

as plagued as I was with Vertigo and claustrophobia. I came across a message, scratched into the chimney wall,"Tell Mrs. Klaus I love her....Santa." Bones below and coat above.

I carried that message to Mrs. Klaus, along with his charred remains I'd carefully scraped into a bright foil gift bag. That's why, kids, Santa doesn't come to our house anymore.