by Bill Tiepelman
Holiday Hijinks in Red Velvet
Every holiday season needs a bit of chaos — not enough to derail Christmas, just enough to keep the reindeer humble and the elves slightly traumatized. And if there was one creature uniquely qualified to deliver that delicate level of festive mayhem, it was Grindle Tock: five-foot-nothing if you counted the hat, ears sharp enough to slice gift wrap, and a grin so sly it probably had its own backstory. At this moment, Grindle sat perched atop a giant present wrapped in shimmering red paper, his bare toes wiggling like they were independently scheming their own crimes. The warm glow of Christmas lights made his skin look almost cherubic… which was wildly misleading to anyone who had met him for more than eight seconds. The party behind him was reaching that blurry phase where elves began harmonizing ancient carols slightly off-key and slightly too passionately. Already three of them had formed a barbershop quartet despite none of them knowing what a barbershop was. Two reindeer — tipsy, though they’d deny it — were at the snack table arguing over the philosophical implications of gluten-free gingerbread. A cluster of toy soldiers stood frozen in their usual stoic formation, but even they seemed to be silently judging the questionable choices unfolding around them. Grindle, however, wasn’t distracted by the spectacle. He had the intense, squinty look of a strategist — or perhaps a raccoon eyeing an unsecured trash can. His Santa-red outfit was a size too small, hugging him with the affectionate enthusiasm of a garment ready to burst if he inhaled wrong. His belt buckle gleamed like it knew secrets. His hat sagged dramatically to the side like it was exhausted from enabling his nonsense. In his lap rested a handmade scroll titled, in calligraphy far too elaborate for someone with his reputation: Operation Cheerquake. The subtitle read: “A Gentle, Non-Destructive Redistribution of Holiday Spirit.” The crossed-out options underneath included “mildly inconvenient,” “reindeer-repellent,” and “illegal without a permit.” What exactly counted as “non-destructive” in Grindle’s mind was a question that had plagued Santa’s legal team for years. The list of previous incidents included exploding peppermint garlands, a hot cocoa fountain that achieved sentience, and a snowman uprising that required three days of mediation and one restraining order. Grindle hadn’t technically been responsible for all of them, but he had been “adjacent to the chaos,” which, in workshop terminology, meant guilty enough. Tonight, though… tonight he felt destiny humming in his bones. Or maybe that was the eggnog. Hard to tell. Grindle preferred to believe it was destiny because it sounded dramatic and he lived for theatrics. Every elf had a role: toy-maker, tinker, baker, reindeer wrangler. Grindle’s role? “Unpredictable Variable.” It was written on his file in Santa’s HR cabinet under the tab labeled “Caution.” “This,” he murmured to himself, “is going to be my masterpiece.” He leaned back, balancing perfectly on the present as if gift boxes were his natural habitat. His toes flexed with alarming enthusiasm. He stared into the twinkling lights with the energy of a small creature about to make a decision that would haunt the entire building by sunrise. His reflection in a nearby ornament looked entirely too pleased with itself, which only encouraged him. He unrolled the scroll and tapped the first item on the list: 1. Relocate the Naughty List. A perfectly innocent idea, really — except that the “relocation” destination was listed simply as “somewhere funny.” Grindle’s sense of humor had once led him to store 400 plush reindeer inside Santa’s sleigh. Santa had not laughed. Mrs. Claus, however, had laughed so hard she snorted cocoa, which only made Grindle feel validated. The second item read: 2. Replace Santa’s boots with spring-loaded substitutes. Not harmful. Just… energetic. Festive even. Think of the cardio. Item three: 3. Initiate Mistletoe Flash Mobs. No further notes. The implications were concerning. He scanned the crowd for his first accomplice — or victim. It was often the same thing. His eyes landed on Jibble, a mild-mannered wrapping elf known for being nice, friendly, and catastrophically gullible. Jibble was currently slow-dancing with a mop, which Grindle mentally categorized as “emotional vulnerability: high.” Perfect. “Tonight’s the night,” Grindle whispered again, like the villain of a Christmas musical no one had approved but everyone would talk about. He hopped lightly, toes curling over the edge of the gift box, preparing to leap into action… or onto someone’s shoulders, depending on opportunity. The air shimmered with anticipation — or possibly glitter fallout. Hard to distinguish at this time of year. And somewhere deep in the workshop, a single candy cane cracked in half for no clear reason. A sign? A warning? Or just poor structural integrity? Only time would tell. Grindle slid off the gift box with the theatrical grace of someone who routinely tripped over nothing. His toes hit the workshop floor with a soft pat-pat, and he strutted forward like a tiny, red-velvet menace on a mission. The lights above twinkled warily, as though aware that they were witnessing the early stages of a North Pole–level disaster. Grindle puffed up his chest, adjusted his hat to the precise angle of “festively unhinged,” and marched straight toward Jibble, who was still slow-dancing with the mop… now whispering affirmations to it. “Jibble,” Grindle said, stepping directly into his line of vision like an elf-shaped pop-up ad. “I need your help.” Jibble blinked slowly, as if trying to determine whether Grindle was real or a hallucination induced by sugar-cookie shots. “Grindle… buddy… last time you said that, I ended up duct-taped to a model train.” “Yes,” Grindle replied proudly, “and it built character. Also speed. You were very aerodynamic.” Jibble looked down at the mop for moral support. The mop, being a mop, offered none. With the defeated sigh of someone who knew resistance was futile, he nodded. “Fine. What do you need?” Grindle’s smile widened with unsettling enthusiasm. “A simple task! We’re going to, hypothetically, temporarily, and entirely for morale purposes… relocate the Naughty List.” Jibble’s pupils dilated. “Grindle. No.” “Grindle. Yes.” Jibble clutched the mop like a lifeline. “Do you know what Santa will do if he finds out?” Grindle shrugged. “Thank me?” “Grindle.” “Fine. He’ll notice. But we’ll put it back! Eventually. Probably.” Jibble whimpered internally but followed anyway, because good decisions had never once happened at a Christmas party. The two elves crept through the swirling chaos of the workshop dance floor. A conga line wrapped around them in a swirling, sugar-fueled tornado — Mrs. Claus still at the front, raising her mug triumphantly, chanting “HOLIDAY CARDIO!” as reindeer scrambled to keep up. An elf DJ was mixing classic carols with an alarming amount of bass, causing several ornaments to vibrate off nearby shelves. A group of gingerbread men — the living enchanted kind — were engaged in a heated dance battle with a flock of snow sprites who had clearly taken caffeine. Grindle moved through the madness untouched, a tiny agent of chaos protected by his own absurd energy. Jibble, however, got hit in the face with a rogue candy cane, stepped into a spilled bowl of marshmallows, and was briefly trapped inside a wreath someone mistook for a dance accessory. Grindle did not slow down. Soon they reached the long hallway leading to Santa’s office. The music faded into muffled thumping behind them, replaced by the serene hum of magical machinery and the faint jingling of distant bells. Here, the air felt… official. Important. Completely incompatible with whatever Grindle was planning. “Okay,” Grindle whispered, flattening himself against a wall despite the corridor being totally empty. “We must be subtle.” “Grindle,” Jibble said, “you’re wearing a hat with a jingle bell the size of a plum.” Grindle scowled, removed the bell, stuffed it into Jibble’s pocket, and continued his stealth mission with exaggerated tiptoe steps so dramatic they resembled an interpretive dance about paranoia. They reached Santa’s office door — a towering slab of carved wood depicting reindeer, snowflakes, and one angelic-looking Santa who would absolutely not approve of this situation. Jibble swallowed hard. The mop trembled in his hands. “Grindle,” he whispered, “maybe we should think about—” “Thinking is the enemy of adventure,” Grindle declared, pushing the door open before Jibble could protest. The office was empty — Santa and Mrs. Claus were still “setting the dance floor on festive fire,” as Mrs. Claus had put it — so the coast was somewhat clear. Warm lamplight illuminated the room. Papers were neatly stacked. The globe of the world spun lazily, glowing with soft enchantment. On Santa’s desk, glowing with restrained cosmic authority, sat the one item they were not supposed to touch under any circumstances: The Naughty List. Bound in leather. Embossed in gold. Radiating the quiet judgment of a thousand disappointed parents. Jibble froze. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m out. I’m going back to the mop. It’s safer.” But Grindle had already marched forward, reverently placing his hands on the list like he was greeting an old friend — or choosing the shiniest object to steal. “Grindle,” Jibble said, voice cracking like a gingerbread cookie under pressure, “you cannot just TAKE it.” “I’m not taking it,” Grindle corrected. “I am temporarily borrowing it to enhance holiday morale through educational mischief. It’s called leadership.” “It’s called a felony.” Grindle snorted. “Only if I get caught.” He lifted the Naughty List. It hummed with ancient magic, glowing brighter the further it moved from the desk. The air shifted. The Christmas lights flickered. Somewhere, a distant bell rang in alarm — or annoyance. “Okay,” Grindle said, “step one: relocation. Step two—” The door creaked. Both elves froze. A shadow passed under the threshold. Heavy footsteps approached. The kind of footsteps that belonged to a man with opinions about proper behavior and a zero-tolerance policy for elf-based shenanigans. Jibble whispered, “We’re dead.” Grindle whispered back, “We’ll die heroes.” “You’ll die. I’ll pass out and hope that counts.” The doorknob turned. Grindle stuffed the Naughty List inside his shirt. That was his plan. The door swung open. The door flew open with a dramatic whoosh, as if the universe itself sensed that something regrettable was about to unfold. In stepped not Santa, nor Mrs. Claus, nor any authority figure with the ability to revoke workshop privileges. Instead, it was— “OH SWEET GINGERBREAD, IT’S JUST TINSEL!” Grindle hissed dramatically. Tinsel Norell—inventory clerk, chaos magnet by proximity, and the only elf who could lose an entire shipment of candy canes without leaving the room—stared at the two of them with the confused expression of someone walking in on a crime they did not want to be associated with. She blinked. Then she blinked again. Then she sighed, already exhausted by the sight before her. “I don’t even want to know,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose like a parent whose children have discovered matches. Grindle puffed out his chest, glowing with pride. “Excellent! If you don’t know, you can’t testify.” “Please don’t use that sentence again,” Jibble whimpered, clutching the mop like it was a legal defense. Tinsel’s eyes drifted to the bulge under Grindle’s shirt—an extremely obvious, rectangular, glowing bulge. “Is that… the Naughty List?” Grindle gasped dramatically. “Tinsel! You wound me! You think I would steal—” The Naughty List hummed loudly inside his shirt like a furious hornet nest. “—borrow,” he corrected without missing a beat, “such a historic, important, extremely overreactive document?” Tinsel stared. Grindle smiled. Jibble cringed so hard his spine made a noise. “You two,” Tinsel said slowly, “are absolutely unhinged.” Grindle beamed. “Thank you.” “That wasn’t a compliment.” “Oh… well, you said it nicely.” Tinsel was about to respond when a booming, jolly, unmistakable voice echoed down the hall. “HO HO—WHERE’S MY LIST?” Santa’s footsteps approached with the slow, seismic certainty of a man who had raised nine thousand elves and forgiven maybe ten. Jibble turned pale. “Grindle. He’s coming. He’s ACTUALLY coming.” “Stay calm,” Grindle said, despite being absolutely incapable of calm. “I have a plan.” He did not have a plan. Santa’s shadow stretched across the hallway like an omen. Tinsel shoved both elves behind Santa’s enormous filing cabinet with the strength of someone who had absolutely no interest in being present for the consequences. Santa entered the office. His boots thudded. His coat swished. His beard practically glowed with judgment. He looked around the room, frowning deeply enough to trigger a small avalanche somewhere. “Strange,” he murmured. “I could’ve sworn I left it right here…” Under the desk, Jibble was silently praying to any holiday deity that would listen. The mop lay across his lap like a dramatic fainting Victorian heroine. Tinsel was holding her breath. And Grindle— Grindle felt the Naughty List shift inside his shirt. He froze. The List glowed through the fabric. It warmed. It hummed louder. Santa turned. The List ignited in a burst of golden sparks so bright that it illuminated the entire hiding spot like a stage spotlight. Grindle let out a squeak. Jibble let out a scream. Tinsel let out a noise that can only be described as “existential dread mixed with a kazoo.” “WHO’S THERE?” Santa thundered. The filing cabinet slid forward as if shoved by an invisible force—or two panicking elves and one cowardly inventory clerk. The trio tumbled out onto the floor in a heap of limbs, mops, and glowing contraband. Santa stared down at them. Slowly. Silently. Deeply disappointedly. “Grindle,” Santa said, in the calm tone every elf feared. “Is that… my Naughty List?” Grindle considered lying. Then the List hummed louder, clearly snitching. “Technicallyyyy…” he said, drawing out the word with the optimism of someone who hoped Santa had recently sustained a blow to the head. “It’s more like a cooperative morale object?” Santa held out his hand. Grindle wilted. He pulled the Naughty List from his shirt with all the shame of a child handing over a broken vase. Santa took it, dusted off the glitter, and sighed the sigh of a man who would need extra cocoa tonight. “We will discuss this later,” Santa said. “Much later.” Grindle nodded solemnly. Jibble fainted again. Tinsel pretended to be unconscious just to avoid responsibility. Santa paused, then added in a much quieter voice, “Also… please stop hiding important artifacts in your shirt. Last year it was the Reindeer Roster. Before that, it was the North Pole Key.” “I learn best by doing,” Grindle said proudly. “And I learn patience by knowing you,” Santa said dryly. He left the room with the List in hand, shaking his head, muttering something about insurance premiums. Once he was gone, Grindle pushed himself up, dusted off his outfit, and struck a heroic pose. “Well!” he declared. “That could have gone worse.” “HOW?” Tinsel shouted. Grindle grinned wickedly. “Oh, I haven’t gotten to items four through twelve yet.” Jibble whimpered. Tinsel groaned. Somewhere in the workshop, a single ornament cracked in fear. And Grindle, red velvet menace, walked off into the twinkling glow of Christmas chaos… already planning the next disaster. Bring Grindle’s Chaos Home If Grindle’s red-velvet mischief made you smile, smirk, or quietly question the structural safety of the North Pole, you can adopt a little of that holiday chaos for your own home. This artwork is available in several festive formats perfect for gifting, decorating, or subtly intimidating coworkers who think their cubicle décor is superior. Dress up your walls with a bold Canvas Print, or go full elegant troublemaker with a gleaming Metal Print. Want something whimsical and cozy? The Tapestry brings Grindle’s energy into any room without requiring magical liability waivers. For those spreading snarky seasonal cheer, the Greeting Card is perfect for delivering holiday messages such as “Hope your Christmas is calmer than Santa’s night.” And if you want just a dash of mischief, snag the durable, adventure-ready Sticker—ideal for laptops, water bottles, and any surface that needs 20% more chaos. Add a little mischievous magic to your world—Grindle insists on it.
