After Mr. Claus froze to death in his cottage at the North Pole (his wife had left him and he had forgotten to pay the electricity bills thereafter, being more interested in ingesting large quantities of alcohol), we had to find a replacement in time for Christmas.
The quickest find was this fairly cheap Santa working at a petrol pump on a highway in Oregon. Not that we paid him anything, in the end. What we did not know was that he had set up the petrol pump so he could kill random strangers passing by. And we had given him free access to homes all over the world.
Santa, of course, did approximately 52,084 homes per second, and by the time our crack team of battle-elves riding on armoured reindeer reached him, he had killed a little over thirty million people.
They caught him getting back into his bloodsoaked sleigh, putting away the axe and the chainsaw and the sledgehammer. Just before five elves shot him in the face, he took a swig from a bottle of alcohol from his bag and screamed, “Tradition, motherfucker! History loves me, and so does rum!”