Holiday lights and Nativity scenes flanked the quiet suburban street the Smith family called home. In the five years since they’d moved in the family had made numerous close friends in the community and they had quite a bit of family in the area. They were particularly well known for hosting elaborate Christmas parties and this year would be no different, or so people thought.

Every year Anita Smith would spend countless hours making crafts from mason jars, adorable hors d’oeuvres, and restaurant quality entrees. “We would go days without speaking to each other. I’d try to get her to come to bed and she’d just look at me blankly before going back to hot gluing something on a snowman,” her husband stated.

Finally fed up Eric Smith hatched a plan to save his family from the insanity that had become their Christmas celebration. “Honestly my first thought was just to cancel, but it seemed so awkward. I mean how would we show our faces in public anymore? What would my mom say?”

Once again societal pressure had forced a once normal family to take drastic measures. The Smiths knew they had only one option left. They would fake their own death. “The hardest part was establishing motive,” Anita recalled in our interview “I mean we lead a pretty mundane existence and it’s a gated community so it’s not like a random stranger could just waltz in. That’s when I decided to start laundering money for a Bulgarian crime syndicate using a Multi-Level Marketing scheme I’d heard about online.”

For months Anita and Eric worked tirelessly squirrelling away vast quantities of Balkan cash carefully, but not too carefully. “It was scary, but not as scary as having to host Anita’s uncle Tom again. I probably would have agreed to murder someone just to avoid hearing any more about his fantasy football team.”

Then came the final test. The day of the party had arrived, and guests started pouring in only this year was different. This year instead of being greeted by the couple and their child all in matching sweaters friends and family were met with disarray.

Broken Christmas ornaments littered the floor, on the table sat only a small pathetic plate of cocktail weenies, and a mutilated Santa figurine stood staring in the corner ominously. Further adding to the guests’ sense of dread was the large pool of blood in the living room.

“I knew it wasn’t blood,” Uncle Tom corrected “I’ve had a few ex-girlfriends and coworkers fake their deaths to avoid having me over for dinner, so I instantly knew it was just corn syrup and food coloring.” Fortunately, this story had a happy ending. Rather than call the police friends and family opted to give the Smiths space until after the holidays and even the Bulgarian mob was remarkably understanding.

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