OK–so this has nothing to do with toys. It’s just a little Christmas-themed story I wrote a couple of years ago. But I’ve always wanted to share it, and this seems like as good a place as any. Enjoy!

The old man sat in the reception room. He wore a red wool suit, trimmed with white.

The room was unbearably warm. The man had taken off his cap and was fidgeting with it nervously, wiping it across his greasy brow. A plate glass window was set in the far wall, but no one was sitting at the desk.

Half an hour passed; then an hour. Still no movement behind the desk. The old man dripped with sweat, and his cap was a twisted mess

“Mr. Claus.”

The old man leapt up in terror, slipped and fell, knocking his head against a coffee table.

“If you’re not unconscious, Mr. Claus,” crackled a voice from hidden speakers, “please step through the door to your right. You know the way.” On cue, the door had creaked open — apparently of its own accord.

Rubbing his bruised temple and cursing, the old man perched the mangled cap on his head, took a deep breath, and walked through the door.

(more…)

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.

“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)