(filed under misc. trash)
Out of the crash mist of a sleigh rose a lanky green miser in a red suit, beat up and broken like the loser of a yeti duel, wobbling and babbling like a fazed invalid.
"Dude, hep shreds," a passing hippie called out, pointing to the crimson nightmare.
The Grinch muttered and stepped over the dispersed contents of the sleigh. A bag of Mac shirts. A Siegel shoehorn. A basket of fine Inca knits. A doggie Selkirk ring. The excess and effluence of a materialistic civilization: the city of Whoville, a hotbed of iniquity and vice.
Now, without its usual stash of gifts, all that would change.
Or so the Grinch had thought, until a run-in with a Cessna two-seater put an end to his dastardly plan.
[thirty-seventh in a series]
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