In September 1897, Virginia O’Hanlon wrote the following letter:

Dear Editor,
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see in the Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O’Hanlon

In 1987, the letter found it’s way to the editor of Fangoria Magazine. This was his warm response.

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. Dead wrong! Santa Claus has little patience for those who don’t believe in him. Once Santa gets a whiff of their disrespectful negative energy, he will find each and every one of them. Pray for their souls, for their demise will not be swift, instead it will be slow, painful, and even agonizing. Santa’s victims will beg for blood to gush from their eyes, something about alleviating the maddening pressure of the hot blue-white flame penetrating the back of their skull. I wouldn’t know, for I firmly believe in Santa Claus. Meanwhile, every pore is being filled with something unnatural and incorrect, ear wax fills your nose, dingleberries invade your nose hair; at first, almost funny, but as it continues, serious and nasty, and oh my God, it will stop, won’t it? At the risk of sounding trite, son of a bitch. How about all that grinding? Bone chiseled away? Nerves exposed? Dying seems like winning the lottery, and that’s never right. Santa’s grinning madly, because of his proclivity for details and exacting this sort of redemption. He is a vengeful man.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and he’s right behind you. If you close your eyes and believe as hard as you can in Santa Claus, you have nothing to fear. But if you have the slightest bit of doubt, say your prayers, it was nice knowing you, sayonara. For your sake, I hope you believe. Otherwise, your ceiling will be coated by the blood geysering, splattering, streaming steadily from your neck, a sight to behold. I will shed a tear, as your decapitated head is forced to watch as it continues to scream and cry. And the worst part, it sounds like a constant stream of someone growling vomit combined by a fire hose at full blast. And hoo Lord, the gut-wrenching stink.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! He lives, and he lives forever. He is the man who controls our ever-increasing population. Ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to devour unnecessary children so the better ones can continue to live, even strive in a less congested society. Imagine a world run by greedy evil bastards, and that, my dear Virginia, is a world without Santa Claus.

Proclivity