A noise woke me up in the middle of the Christmas night.

I went downstairs very quietly, grabbing my baseball bat on the way. What I saw left me puzzled and shocked as I peeked through the doorway.

An out of shape bearded old man in a dirty and torn red suit was looking through my wallet. The TV was smashed, most of my DVDs were missing and there was a repugnant odor of vomit and cheap beer emanating from my once pristine living room.

The most disturbing aspect of that sad scene was probably the dried blood stains on his urine-soaked pants. Just before running out of the house, my eyes stopped on the dark curved shape just above his belt — Santa was armed.