12-07-2015, 02:10 AM
He leans his weight forward onto his hands and knees. But before he can take his first crawl toward his closet: Didn’t anyone ever tell you Santa won’t come when you are awake?
The boy freezes, glancing at the door. And then it blows open, too much force for a creak — only the loud thwack of His magic. The inside knob digs itself into the wall opposite. He yelps, sitting back down, raising his hands like a shield. Squeezing his eyes tight, “This is so fucked up. This cannot be happening...” He wheezes breathlessly. But when he lifts one eyelid, peeking between the fleshy digits, there He stands. He stands there with his fists on his hips, his pot-belly swaying with every exhale. We aren’t here to hurt anyone, unless you get in our way. But since you are up… The teenager blinks, his mouth is agape. He swallows hard, but there isn't a drop of saliva in his mouth.
We could use your help. He opens both his eyes wide, dropping his hands to the ground. And he wonders, for a moment.... could you really? Someone needing his help... wanting his help?! Had that ever happened in his life? The words are a temptation. The chaos outside is equally an intoxicant, turning up something deep and...
(‘Oh! Come now, Pollock, let's not fall for this lark!
When has that ever been the case,’ It says with a snark.
‘When have you ever been of use? When have you ever been wanted?’
Now Elliot shook his head, unsure exactly who taunted.
‘Well. Okay. If you've fallen for it, you stupid, stupid boy,
Go on then. Fine. Be off! Let him play you like a toy...’)
He moves his eyes back up, having fallen to the floor,
now narrowed suspiciously at the green man before.
But what He says next plucks a sad and small string deep in the boy. Elliot looks down between his feet, anger mixing with something even more wounded. “About family?” He spits, surprised at the tears that squeeze from his eyes, “Really? Why the fuck would I want it to be about family?” He feels something smoldering in his gut. Growing bigger and bigger. Glowing hotter and hotter. Spreading through his veins and pushing warmth and venom into his chest. He puts his good hand behind him on his bed and pushes himself to his feet. “My family is a joke,” He sniffs and wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, feeling his face flush. “That's assuming you can even describe what I have like that. Would be a fairly fucking liberal use of the world in my opinion.” He blinks the remaining moisture from his eyes, jutting out his chin.
“What about other people's families... well, you'd help them see, wouldn't you?” He grins ear to ear, his headlight eyes flickering with blinks. The boy almost thinks he can see a deceptive glint in their depths. (What is your game, Grinch?) The makeshift antlers, with red thread, clutched in his hairy, green hand.
His eyes focus on the dark between the Grinch and a bored looking gremlin, his unholy eyes flicking back and forth. “I remember this one time I came back from the Playground...” He scratches his head, “I... I... I had told her I had brought back a friend.” But the memory is receding. He shakes his head, “Anyway, it may have been the first time mom got at me, but it definitely wasn't the last. She's a bitch. And everyone else and their family can rot in hell.” He hisses the last few words savagely, unconsciously reaching his right hand back to examine his left shoulder. Still smooth. His eyes fill with a shock and shame, but above all a confusion — his brain feels pulled apart at the line of longitude.
It's what he soo wanted. To believe the Grinch's vision. To capture it for himself, a perfect and rosy snowglobe. But Christmas was one night, one blip on the year. Tomorrow? How could the Grinch guarantee tomorrow?
Of course, the answer is simple. He can't.
(‘Hold on there, now, boy. Remember your options are scant,
See, they're blocking the door and your not terribly fast,
He'd grab you up by your toenails if you tried to get past.’
It sighs, a long and thoughtful sigh. ‘You're not very athletic nor very smart,
Good luck. You'll need it, Pollock. All you have left is... heart.’
It laughs and it laughs cruelly, searing doubt in his mind,)
...And the young man grew darker, the longer it opined.
The Grinch looks at him, perhaps curiosity in those wells of green. His hand thrusts forward, offering the boy power beyond his wildest dreams. But his decision is made, feeling something rebelling against it in the frantic hurl of his stomach. It feels wrong, the dark b-zzzz-ing hum he thinks he can hear from the antlers is speaking to his core. A tone he understands on a mysterious and primordial level. It is like understanding a language you have never heard before, like a second life was spent nursing on that dialect. But his draw to that dark and demonic troupe is overwhelmed by his swelling animosity for his dam...n mother.
Maybe in that moment the Grinch understood, for the boy thinks (just maybe) he saw his hideous grin falter. With disappointment, or anger, he'll never know. Maybe both in equal measure. But in a flash Elliot Pollock feels a galvanization. His path is clear, except... well, it literally isn't. As if on command, he hears scratching on the roof above his head and maybe the faint jingle of bells — his bedroom door slams just as fast as it was caved in. And then the door glitters with a seal of ice and frost. He feels impelled by a deep understanding — this is not going to last long. This is one of scant few moments of power like this. He has to make it count.
He springs for his closet. He pulls a hoodie over his head, adrenaline numbing the effects on his shoulder. And then in his closet he finds some pairs of thick socks, clumsily pulling a couple of them onto his feet. They might keep him warm, it's better than nothing. And then he flings himself onto his bed, hurriedly pushing the window ajar. He steps onto the section of roof below his window and wonders now: where to go from here? The great clashing and clanging of the world around him is more evident that before. (And he smiles for a second, a small and crooked grin, before smoothing that strange animus away.) He can jump down. It is not so far, and the drop would be gentled by the snow below. Or he can crawl left or right and into one of the attached neighbouring houses. And then the door behind opens with an even greater crack! than before. He scurries to the right, his time for thinking cut short.
“Get him!” Comes a great, angry bellow. He thinks he can hear a couple odd little skitters as he reaches the neighbour's bedroom window. He places his hands on the panes and pushes up, and with no magical miracle, it gives. He slips uncouthly through the window without a thought of what is inside. Closing it, he turns the locks, and replaces the curtains in front to block the view. There, as he turns, are two small children wrapped in each other's arms. And their father, standing vigil at his bedroom door. Clutching a knife.
He turns to the teenager, brandishing his knife and stepping closer. His face lined with stress, and his hand shaking. But when he sees it's only the son of the woman next door, he lowers it slightly. “What the hell is going on out there? It's Elliot, right, Pheobe's boy?” His ears fill with the stark sound of silence. Like in war movies when an explosion goes off next to the protagonist. His eyes narrow, and with the catlike grace only afforded to a teenage boy possessed, he leaps at the man, knocking him off his feet. The man is undoubtedly stronger than the boy, but he is caught off guard. As his back hits the ground he releases the air in his lungs with a heavy hrrum-phhhf. Elliot Pollock's left foot strikes out, kicking the knife from his half open hand. He gives the next door dad's head a few knocks on the ground, before hissing and reaching for his bad shoulder. It pumps with fierce pain, arm falling limp and weak by his side. He rolls onto his right hand, turning and crawling quickly left for the knife. The dad is rubbing his head, and his boy and girl are crying their little eyes out. He straightens up with a sigh, rolling his head and looking at the scene...
(‘Now, with knife in hand. Well, Pollock, the choice is aallll yours,’
The voice is mean. ‘...But you haven't got the strength,’ It finally roars.
‘You haven't got it in you now! Oh, but we'll find it still yet.’
It grows in anger, ‘You'll remember who you are. That is my bet.’)
He stumbles and fumbles, and feels a great squeeze in his head,
A great, disfigured monster is rising from bed.
He points the blade at the family, his bad hand rubbing his forehead. “Just. Stay here! I've got things to do.” He leans in close to the kids, “I'd stop screaming if I were you.” He chuckles, but he doesn't quite recognize it from his own lips. Then he moves to the door, holding his finger to his mouth. Elliot pushes it open. It gives in silently, and the hall, left and right, is dark and deserted. He breaths in deep with resolve, before leaving he turns back to the dad. “Lock the door behind me, and the window, too,” And then back again. “Better yet, move to a different room and keep quiet, go back to bed.” He motions over his shoulder to the window. “They may have seen me come in.” And they are looking for me, He remembers. Although, he cannot think why. What was it about him that the green man is drawn to?
He squeezes himself against the wall, side-stepping towards the stairs. He knows this layout like the back of his hand, being the same, room for room, as his own home's. And sure enough he comes to the top, and looking down he feels confident that the house is yet untouched. What he knows, through and through, is that his own house would not take long to rid of holiday stuff. He doesn't have much time. He tip-toes to the ground floor, looking at the front entrance. Standing there, are a pair of large, lined boots. The dad's no doubt. The boy places the knife down and sits, feeling a surge of panic as the comforting blade leaves his hand. He struggles for a moment with pulling the boots over his doubled-up socks. Finally he stands, and he wriggles his toes. It is snug, but more importantly: warm.
The ground floor is one big, open room, more or less. The entrance way flowing into a living room (Christmas tree in the corner, a-light), with the kitchen at the back. And on the very back wall of the kitchen is the back door. He hesitates for a moment. Even more likely now than being found by a group of maundering gremlins, is being hounded down by those sent directly to find him. But there's no time for this. He imagines the gremlins won't hurt the family upstairs, that Grinch promised... He isn't convinced. He creeps across to the bitter cold, moonlit kitchen. The back lawn looking deserted through the frame of the door's window. He tightens his grip on his weapon, a straight but small vegetable cutter. On the counter is a holder, prominently displaying the handle of a much larger chef's knife. He places his own down beside and draws the new blade from its wooden scabbard. “Better,” He whispers. “Much better.”
Pollock takes a step toward the back door. The LEDs that had lined the triplet's gutters are gone. But no gremlins, either. They are ransacking other houses around, he is sure. No doubt the gremlins would be coming down once they found his presence lacking upstairs.
His yard shares a border with the back of a detached bungalow, separated by white chain link. He hears the sound of an explosion, like a thousand party crackers being pulled at once. He wonders if a great battle is ensuing somewhere. Without much time to think he creeps from the doorway, pressing against the vinyl siding, then dashing off across the yard! He hardly hears anything! Or even feels the wind on his face! He stumbles once, the snow thankfully not too deep. He reaches the fence and near hurdles the height. With great bounding steps he shifts low towards the front. He slinks around the walls of the house, trying to stay in the shadows. But as he approaches the corner he hears a small din, and he stop in his tracks. He leans to listen in.
“We'll it's awfully big,” He hears a high, thoughtful voice.
“Awful big! It's huge! It's gigantic!” Comes a much more frantic screech.
The boy peeks around the corner and his mouth drops open, noiselessly. Huddling around on the front porch of the house is a small group of... elves, not much more than a foot tall themselves. They were basically human, as far as he can see — save for the pointy ears and overly bulbous noses. “I think I can deal with it.” The thoughtful voice again, and he sees the elf now is jumping down from a plastic lawn chair in from of a window. He rejoins his group, and their voices die to a hush, muffled by their huddle. He tests his grip on his knife and pulls the black hood over his head to protect his ears from the cold. And then with a confidence, the source of which he doesn't understand, he approaches the small band. He feels, with no sense of camaraderie, that these little men are his allies. At least, they are on this fucked up night.
“What's in there?” He calls out, approaching slowly. His answer comes from the soft-spoken one again. “Well, we're not exactly sure.” He admits gesturing with both of his hands. They seemed friendly enough. He couldn't tell if it was because they were a naturally trusting sort, or because their intuition told them he was on their side. “You got out. That's good,” Pipes in a particularly squat chap, “I was sure that only Grinchy was going to get his hands on you.” Without explanation, the thoughtful one steps out again, “Maybe you could help us? See, we have limited powers here and, quite limited size and we aren't quite sure what we'll find inside. The door was unlocked, and open just a bit, and from what I can see, they've gotten here, first.” His chin falls to his chest, and his voice has grown sad. The boy drops the knife to his side and climbs up the steps, looking through the window. Sitting just on the back of a sofa is a fat, white persian cat, staring down at them contemptuously. And maybe a tiny bit hungry. “That's just a cat,” He says with bravado in his voice, moving through the group he pushes the door open. The white cat licks it chops, but soon loses its nerve, hissing out of the room and out the front door, scattering the elves back.
The group of small men all let out a sad gasp. The house is empty, nothing at all left of any Christmas cheer. From his puffy coat, a skinny elf produces a single silver bell. He lets it ring out mournfully before putting it back. Then from a different pocket retrieves a string of golden tinsel, throwing it up in the air with an ever solemn look on his face. It lands unceremoniously on the ground to their left. Elliot rolls his eyes, walking across the living room floor. Their quiet is disturbed by two demons with wide bursting from the kitchen door. They carry rattling bags over their shoulders, something glittery jutting from the draw-string tops. The two demons garble in surprise, dropping their bags to the ground and baring their yellowy teeth. “Get ready, boys!” Calls out the squat elf, pulling his triangular cap down over his brow, but Elliot thinks he hears sharp shrieks from at least two of his comrades behind.
“Grab something you can use as a weapon...” He looks around, pointing emphatically at a set of knitting needles poking out of some yarn in a basket. The thoughtful one pushes forward, and his face lapses into great concentration. Then one of the heavy sacks that the gremlins were carrying, floats in mid air. It swings back a little, for just a bit more momentum, and then slams into the back of the demon on the right.
The cackling creature tips over, sprawling at Pollock's feet. A few of the elves, one now armed with the needles, scream out a war cry and rush the other. Without even thinking, in one swift motion, he lifts the knife over his head and brings it down into the back of the face-down foe. His breathing is faster and heavier, black-blue blood pooling around the wound. He jerks the blade out, the body lifting a bit with the motion, and then turns to the other, overwhelmed by cheerily-garbed men. Pollock stands up, and marches over to the scene.
With a white needle sticking out from his shoulder, the demon lets out a hell-raising scream, cut short by a blade driven deep into his chest. That scream was not a normal death knell, of that the boy was sure. He pushes past the group of gaping elves and hurries across to the front door.
From every house on the street came a gremlin or two,
but so did the elves, attracted to the coup.
(‘Here it is, Pollock, more chaos than you could ever dream!’
He cleans his knife across his chest, inspecting its gleam.
‘You feel that, young man?’ It whispers close in his ear,
He feels warm and alert, ‘That is violence without fear.’)
He walks out onto the porch, surveying the scene,
And behind the green glow of eyes, a growl, “So that's where you've been.”
The boy freezes, glancing at the door. And then it blows open, too much force for a creak — only the loud thwack of His magic. The inside knob digs itself into the wall opposite. He yelps, sitting back down, raising his hands like a shield. Squeezing his eyes tight, “This is so fucked up. This cannot be happening...” He wheezes breathlessly. But when he lifts one eyelid, peeking between the fleshy digits, there He stands. He stands there with his fists on his hips, his pot-belly swaying with every exhale. We aren’t here to hurt anyone, unless you get in our way. But since you are up… The teenager blinks, his mouth is agape. He swallows hard, but there isn't a drop of saliva in his mouth.
We could use your help. He opens both his eyes wide, dropping his hands to the ground. And he wonders, for a moment.... could you really? Someone needing his help... wanting his help?! Had that ever happened in his life? The words are a temptation. The chaos outside is equally an intoxicant, turning up something deep and...
(‘Oh! Come now, Pollock, let's not fall for this lark!
When has that ever been the case,’ It says with a snark.
‘When have you ever been of use? When have you ever been wanted?’
Now Elliot shook his head, unsure exactly who taunted.
‘Well. Okay. If you've fallen for it, you stupid, stupid boy,
Go on then. Fine. Be off! Let him play you like a toy...’)
He moves his eyes back up, having fallen to the floor,
now narrowed suspiciously at the green man before.
But what He says next plucks a sad and small string deep in the boy. Elliot looks down between his feet, anger mixing with something even more wounded. “About family?” He spits, surprised at the tears that squeeze from his eyes, “Really? Why the fuck would I want it to be about family?” He feels something smoldering in his gut. Growing bigger and bigger. Glowing hotter and hotter. Spreading through his veins and pushing warmth and venom into his chest. He puts his good hand behind him on his bed and pushes himself to his feet. “My family is a joke,” He sniffs and wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, feeling his face flush. “That's assuming you can even describe what I have like that. Would be a fairly fucking liberal use of the world in my opinion.” He blinks the remaining moisture from his eyes, jutting out his chin.
“What about other people's families... well, you'd help them see, wouldn't you?” He grins ear to ear, his headlight eyes flickering with blinks. The boy almost thinks he can see a deceptive glint in their depths. (What is your game, Grinch?) The makeshift antlers, with red thread, clutched in his hairy, green hand.
His eyes focus on the dark between the Grinch and a bored looking gremlin, his unholy eyes flicking back and forth. “I remember this one time I came back from the Playground...” He scratches his head, “I... I... I had told her I had brought back a friend.” But the memory is receding. He shakes his head, “Anyway, it may have been the first time mom got at me, but it definitely wasn't the last. She's a bitch. And everyone else and their family can rot in hell.” He hisses the last few words savagely, unconsciously reaching his right hand back to examine his left shoulder. Still smooth. His eyes fill with a shock and shame, but above all a confusion — his brain feels pulled apart at the line of longitude.
It's what he soo wanted. To believe the Grinch's vision. To capture it for himself, a perfect and rosy snowglobe. But Christmas was one night, one blip on the year. Tomorrow? How could the Grinch guarantee tomorrow?
Of course, the answer is simple. He can't.
(‘Hold on there, now, boy. Remember your options are scant,
See, they're blocking the door and your not terribly fast,
He'd grab you up by your toenails if you tried to get past.’
It sighs, a long and thoughtful sigh. ‘You're not very athletic nor very smart,
Good luck. You'll need it, Pollock. All you have left is... heart.’
It laughs and it laughs cruelly, searing doubt in his mind,)
...And the young man grew darker, the longer it opined.
The Grinch looks at him, perhaps curiosity in those wells of green. His hand thrusts forward, offering the boy power beyond his wildest dreams. But his decision is made, feeling something rebelling against it in the frantic hurl of his stomach. It feels wrong, the dark b-zzzz-ing hum he thinks he can hear from the antlers is speaking to his core. A tone he understands on a mysterious and primordial level. It is like understanding a language you have never heard before, like a second life was spent nursing on that dialect. But his draw to that dark and demonic troupe is overwhelmed by his swelling animosity for his dam...n mother.
Maybe in that moment the Grinch understood, for the boy thinks (just maybe) he saw his hideous grin falter. With disappointment, or anger, he'll never know. Maybe both in equal measure. But in a flash Elliot Pollock feels a galvanization. His path is clear, except... well, it literally isn't. As if on command, he hears scratching on the roof above his head and maybe the faint jingle of bells — his bedroom door slams just as fast as it was caved in. And then the door glitters with a seal of ice and frost. He feels impelled by a deep understanding — this is not going to last long. This is one of scant few moments of power like this. He has to make it count.
He springs for his closet. He pulls a hoodie over his head, adrenaline numbing the effects on his shoulder. And then in his closet he finds some pairs of thick socks, clumsily pulling a couple of them onto his feet. They might keep him warm, it's better than nothing. And then he flings himself onto his bed, hurriedly pushing the window ajar. He steps onto the section of roof below his window and wonders now: where to go from here? The great clashing and clanging of the world around him is more evident that before. (And he smiles for a second, a small and crooked grin, before smoothing that strange animus away.) He can jump down. It is not so far, and the drop would be gentled by the snow below. Or he can crawl left or right and into one of the attached neighbouring houses. And then the door behind opens with an even greater crack! than before. He scurries to the right, his time for thinking cut short.
“Get him!” Comes a great, angry bellow. He thinks he can hear a couple odd little skitters as he reaches the neighbour's bedroom window. He places his hands on the panes and pushes up, and with no magical miracle, it gives. He slips uncouthly through the window without a thought of what is inside. Closing it, he turns the locks, and replaces the curtains in front to block the view. There, as he turns, are two small children wrapped in each other's arms. And their father, standing vigil at his bedroom door. Clutching a knife.
He turns to the teenager, brandishing his knife and stepping closer. His face lined with stress, and his hand shaking. But when he sees it's only the son of the woman next door, he lowers it slightly. “What the hell is going on out there? It's Elliot, right, Pheobe's boy?” His ears fill with the stark sound of silence. Like in war movies when an explosion goes off next to the protagonist. His eyes narrow, and with the catlike grace only afforded to a teenage boy possessed, he leaps at the man, knocking him off his feet. The man is undoubtedly stronger than the boy, but he is caught off guard. As his back hits the ground he releases the air in his lungs with a heavy hrrum-phhhf. Elliot Pollock's left foot strikes out, kicking the knife from his half open hand. He gives the next door dad's head a few knocks on the ground, before hissing and reaching for his bad shoulder. It pumps with fierce pain, arm falling limp and weak by his side. He rolls onto his right hand, turning and crawling quickly left for the knife. The dad is rubbing his head, and his boy and girl are crying their little eyes out. He straightens up with a sigh, rolling his head and looking at the scene...
(‘Now, with knife in hand. Well, Pollock, the choice is aallll yours,’
The voice is mean. ‘...But you haven't got the strength,’ It finally roars.
‘You haven't got it in you now! Oh, but we'll find it still yet.’
It grows in anger, ‘You'll remember who you are. That is my bet.’)
He stumbles and fumbles, and feels a great squeeze in his head,
A great, disfigured monster is rising from bed.
He points the blade at the family, his bad hand rubbing his forehead. “Just. Stay here! I've got things to do.” He leans in close to the kids, “I'd stop screaming if I were you.” He chuckles, but he doesn't quite recognize it from his own lips. Then he moves to the door, holding his finger to his mouth. Elliot pushes it open. It gives in silently, and the hall, left and right, is dark and deserted. He breaths in deep with resolve, before leaving he turns back to the dad. “Lock the door behind me, and the window, too,” And then back again. “Better yet, move to a different room and keep quiet, go back to bed.” He motions over his shoulder to the window. “They may have seen me come in.” And they are looking for me, He remembers. Although, he cannot think why. What was it about him that the green man is drawn to?
He squeezes himself against the wall, side-stepping towards the stairs. He knows this layout like the back of his hand, being the same, room for room, as his own home's. And sure enough he comes to the top, and looking down he feels confident that the house is yet untouched. What he knows, through and through, is that his own house would not take long to rid of holiday stuff. He doesn't have much time. He tip-toes to the ground floor, looking at the front entrance. Standing there, are a pair of large, lined boots. The dad's no doubt. The boy places the knife down and sits, feeling a surge of panic as the comforting blade leaves his hand. He struggles for a moment with pulling the boots over his doubled-up socks. Finally he stands, and he wriggles his toes. It is snug, but more importantly: warm.
The ground floor is one big, open room, more or less. The entrance way flowing into a living room (Christmas tree in the corner, a-light), with the kitchen at the back. And on the very back wall of the kitchen is the back door. He hesitates for a moment. Even more likely now than being found by a group of maundering gremlins, is being hounded down by those sent directly to find him. But there's no time for this. He imagines the gremlins won't hurt the family upstairs, that Grinch promised... He isn't convinced. He creeps across to the bitter cold, moonlit kitchen. The back lawn looking deserted through the frame of the door's window. He tightens his grip on his weapon, a straight but small vegetable cutter. On the counter is a holder, prominently displaying the handle of a much larger chef's knife. He places his own down beside and draws the new blade from its wooden scabbard. “Better,” He whispers. “Much better.”
Pollock takes a step toward the back door. The LEDs that had lined the triplet's gutters are gone. But no gremlins, either. They are ransacking other houses around, he is sure. No doubt the gremlins would be coming down once they found his presence lacking upstairs.
His yard shares a border with the back of a detached bungalow, separated by white chain link. He hears the sound of an explosion, like a thousand party crackers being pulled at once. He wonders if a great battle is ensuing somewhere. Without much time to think he creeps from the doorway, pressing against the vinyl siding, then dashing off across the yard! He hardly hears anything! Or even feels the wind on his face! He stumbles once, the snow thankfully not too deep. He reaches the fence and near hurdles the height. With great bounding steps he shifts low towards the front. He slinks around the walls of the house, trying to stay in the shadows. But as he approaches the corner he hears a small din, and he stop in his tracks. He leans to listen in.
“We'll it's awfully big,” He hears a high, thoughtful voice.
“Awful big! It's huge! It's gigantic!” Comes a much more frantic screech.
The boy peeks around the corner and his mouth drops open, noiselessly. Huddling around on the front porch of the house is a small group of... elves, not much more than a foot tall themselves. They were basically human, as far as he can see — save for the pointy ears and overly bulbous noses. “I think I can deal with it.” The thoughtful voice again, and he sees the elf now is jumping down from a plastic lawn chair in from of a window. He rejoins his group, and their voices die to a hush, muffled by their huddle. He tests his grip on his knife and pulls the black hood over his head to protect his ears from the cold. And then with a confidence, the source of which he doesn't understand, he approaches the small band. He feels, with no sense of camaraderie, that these little men are his allies. At least, they are on this fucked up night.
“What's in there?” He calls out, approaching slowly. His answer comes from the soft-spoken one again. “Well, we're not exactly sure.” He admits gesturing with both of his hands. They seemed friendly enough. He couldn't tell if it was because they were a naturally trusting sort, or because their intuition told them he was on their side. “You got out. That's good,” Pipes in a particularly squat chap, “I was sure that only Grinchy was going to get his hands on you.” Without explanation, the thoughtful one steps out again, “Maybe you could help us? See, we have limited powers here and, quite limited size and we aren't quite sure what we'll find inside. The door was unlocked, and open just a bit, and from what I can see, they've gotten here, first.” His chin falls to his chest, and his voice has grown sad. The boy drops the knife to his side and climbs up the steps, looking through the window. Sitting just on the back of a sofa is a fat, white persian cat, staring down at them contemptuously. And maybe a tiny bit hungry. “That's just a cat,” He says with bravado in his voice, moving through the group he pushes the door open. The white cat licks it chops, but soon loses its nerve, hissing out of the room and out the front door, scattering the elves back.
The group of small men all let out a sad gasp. The house is empty, nothing at all left of any Christmas cheer. From his puffy coat, a skinny elf produces a single silver bell. He lets it ring out mournfully before putting it back. Then from a different pocket retrieves a string of golden tinsel, throwing it up in the air with an ever solemn look on his face. It lands unceremoniously on the ground to their left. Elliot rolls his eyes, walking across the living room floor. Their quiet is disturbed by two demons with wide bursting from the kitchen door. They carry rattling bags over their shoulders, something glittery jutting from the draw-string tops. The two demons garble in surprise, dropping their bags to the ground and baring their yellowy teeth. “Get ready, boys!” Calls out the squat elf, pulling his triangular cap down over his brow, but Elliot thinks he hears sharp shrieks from at least two of his comrades behind.
“Grab something you can use as a weapon...” He looks around, pointing emphatically at a set of knitting needles poking out of some yarn in a basket. The thoughtful one pushes forward, and his face lapses into great concentration. Then one of the heavy sacks that the gremlins were carrying, floats in mid air. It swings back a little, for just a bit more momentum, and then slams into the back of the demon on the right.
The cackling creature tips over, sprawling at Pollock's feet. A few of the elves, one now armed with the needles, scream out a war cry and rush the other. Without even thinking, in one swift motion, he lifts the knife over his head and brings it down into the back of the face-down foe. His breathing is faster and heavier, black-blue blood pooling around the wound. He jerks the blade out, the body lifting a bit with the motion, and then turns to the other, overwhelmed by cheerily-garbed men. Pollock stands up, and marches over to the scene.
With a white needle sticking out from his shoulder, the demon lets out a hell-raising scream, cut short by a blade driven deep into his chest. That scream was not a normal death knell, of that the boy was sure. He pushes past the group of gaping elves and hurries across to the front door.
From every house on the street came a gremlin or two,
but so did the elves, attracted to the coup.
(‘Here it is, Pollock, more chaos than you could ever dream!’
He cleans his knife across his chest, inspecting its gleam.
‘You feel that, young man?’ It whispers close in his ear,
He feels warm and alert, ‘That is violence without fear.’)
He walks out onto the porch, surveying the scene,
And behind the green glow of eyes, a growl, “So that's where you've been.”
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)