It was Christmas morning in Whoville. As the sun rose above the snowy mountains, a Who girl and boy bounded out of bed, running into their parents’ rooms and hopping on them until the tired but smiling parents threw back the blanket and led their little ones to the Christmas tree.

There followed a great riot, with cries of joy and giggles of glee as each present was unwrapped. As the children fussed over their gifts, their father put on his robe and slippers and headed out to get the morning paper.

He opened the door, blinking in the bright sunlight that reflected off the snow. Covering his brow with one hand, he looked about for the paper.

But the ground before him wasn’t white. It was awash in seasonal color–green and red.

For on his doorstep was the infamous Grinch–in a pool of his own blood.

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“What have you got, Alexx? What is your guess?”

Whoville’s medical examiner looked up at the speaker.” Looks like three stab wounds, all to the chest.”

Lieutenant Whoratio Caine knelt down next to the corpse, his expression unreadable.

“Everyone knows the Grinch was reformed,” said Alexx. “Why would they kill him on Christmas morn?”

Whoratio stood up and looked out over the snow.

Alexx stroked the Grinch’s head. “I’ve never seen something so vicious…”

Whoratio put on his sunglasses. “Someone,” he said, “stole the Grinch’s Christmas.”

(art by Red Kryptonite)