Grizzly Bastard

A friend sent me an email this afternoon; first time I've heard from him since before the Christmas holidays. He groused that I hadn't wished him a merry Christmas, not a word, and happy New Year, then proceeded to assert that was just as much his problem as mine, since I haven't heard from him. He then got down to business, asking me for contact information for a headhunter I mentioned to him long ago, saying he couldn't reveal the reasons for the request. Here's my response to him. I can be a grizzly bastard when I want to be.

Santa's dead, killed in a one-vehicle accident just before 4:00 am on Christmas eve. Alcohol was involved. So was a 68-year-old hooker named Savannah, who'd just given St. Nick a gift of head in return for a couple of grams of crack cocaine, a bottle of personally-prepared corn liquor, and a gun.

Call me for the information you seek; it will cost you dearly, now that Santa's gone.

BTW, I've guessed all the reasons you could have for the question and have come up flush with answers.