Nobody knew when they showed up. Everybody thought somebody else had quietly put them up in the middle of the night. Like the Wilsons down the street, whose house could be seen for miles. He was a likely candidate. Or Frank. But each time the people in the neighbourhood asked each other, “Did you do this?”, they’d be greeted with the response of, “No, I thought it was you.”
It didn’t seem to matter. After all, it was Christmas. And the sight of all these giant Santas on the street seemed to warm the cockles of everyone’s hearts. Even if these Santas did seem to stare at you, bodies turning slightly in the wind to follow you as you walked down the street. It was Christmas. These decorations were expected.
Until the night before Christmas, when all through the neighbourhood, the giant inflatable Santas woke from their pre-programmed slumber, and started shooting lasers from their eyes, and coal-shpaed rocket grenades from their hands. People woke to screams and explosions.
But, in the end, the neighbourhood was united in a kind of Christmas spirit. One that involved axes and knifes and lots of ripping fabric as, as one, the neighbours attacked the giant inflatable Santas and downed every last one.
God bless us, every one.