GPT

Like an overripe beefsteak tomato rimmed with cottage cheese, the corpulent remains of Santa Claus lay dead on the hotel floor. The room smelled of expired milk, sweat, and something vaguely metallic. His once-crimson suit, now darkened with sweat and other, less-identifiable fluids, hung open, revealing a belly that had not known restraint in decades. A half-chewed sugar cookie clung to his beard like a desperate plea for relevance.

The maid who discovered the body, a woman of unshakable constitution named Dolores, merely sighed. It wasn’t the first time a jolly man had died on her shift. "At least this one kept his pants on," she muttered, stepping back to avoid the slow-creeping pool of holiday spirit.

The investigators arrived within the hour, their boots sticking slightly to the carpet. Detective Marsh knelt beside the body, poked the doughy flesh with his pen, and winced. “Heart attack?”

His partner, a wiry man with a perpetual look of skepticism, scanned the room. “Maybe. But look at this.” He pointed to the nightstand. A bottle of whiskey, half-empty. A vial of unidentified pills. A crumpled letter.

Marsh picked it up, smoothing the paper. The handwriting was shaky, uneven.

"Dear children,
I’m sorry. The list has grown too long. The world wants too much. The elves unionized. The reindeer have gone feral. Mrs. Claus ran off with the Easter Bunny. I can’t keep up. Christmas is dead, and soon, so am I.
Ho ho ho,
S.C."

The detectives exchanged a look.

“Well,” Marsh said, standing up and dusting off his knees. “Merry damn Christmas.”

Outside, it started to snow.