The criminal raised his weapon, a sleek black revolver.
The old man’s smile did not fade. He did not raise his hands. He was not frightened.
“You want to die?” asked the thug.
“Of course not. But you won’t kill me.”
“I have every right. You are a home invader! What gives you the right to go into people’s homes every year, uninvited?”
“It’s called implied consent,” offered Santa.
“Consent!” screamed the burglar, “I don’t give you permission to come into my house!”
“Ho ho ho,” laughed Santa, “I don’t go into your house, Francis. You’re on my naughty list!”
The old man’s smile did not fade. He did not raise his hands. He was not frightened.
“You want to die?” asked the thug.
“Of course not. But you won’t kill me.”
“I have every right. You are a home invader! What gives you the right to go into people’s homes every year, uninvited?”
“It’s called implied consent,” offered Santa.
“Consent!” screamed the burglar, “I don’t give you permission to come into my house!”
“Ho ho ho,” laughed Santa, “I don’t go into your house, Francis. You’re on my naughty list!”
