"[in a letter to Thurman] Dear Kid, I hope that you got my present and that there wasn't too much blood on it, although there was blood on the presents you gave me, which didn't keep me from enjoying it, so maybe the blood doesn't matter so much, I guess. Just in case they took it as evidence, I'm also sending you a T-shirt. I hope it's the right size. I'm healing up good and they tell me that I will soon be 100%, even with eight bullets dug out of me cause they didn't hit any vital organs, just my liver, which is fucked anyway. Hahaha. Anyways, I told the cops you had no one to take the fuck care of you so they set it up with Ms. Santa's Sister to watch you 'til your dad gets back in one year and three months. They made her a guardian pro tem, or some such shit. Anyway, she makes better money than bartending and seems to like you, your house, and Jacuzzi. As for my little helper, I'm sorry to tell you that him and his prune-faced, mail-order wife are gonna be exploring mountains with your dad. I hope your dad doesn't go sucking shit for them like I did. Thank you for giving that letter to the cops, I forgot to ask you to do it, but it's a good thing you did or Santa's little helper would've plugged his ass, and now the cops know I wrote it, which is gonna keep my ass outta jail. That plus everyone agreeing that to Phoenix police department shooting an unarmed Santa was even more fucked up than Rodney King. Cops are treating me like fucking royalty now, which is new in my experience. They're gonna make me the sensitivity counselor, so that tragedies like this will never again embarrass the whole fucking department. Whatever. So I'll be staying in Phoenix now, telling the police how screwed up they are, which is not a bad job as jobs go. They're supposed to let me out of this hospital room soon, so I'll see you when I come over and fuck Ms. Santa's Sister in the jacuzzi. Until then, don't take no shit from nobody, least of all, yourself. Anyway, see you soon. Santa."