Page 1 of The Grinch Who Stole Orcmas

Chapter 1: The Grinch of the Integration Zone

Grum

“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!”

The sound grates on me, setting my tusks on edge as my hands clench into fists at my sides. The urge to silence that jolly voice surges through me, hot and urgent.

“Come on, everyone! Santa’s here to spread some Christmas cheer!” Could that voice be any more jolly? It makes me want to hurl something… or just hurl.

That’s the final straw. Shoving through the crowd, ignoring the startled yelps and angry protests, my target comes into view. A pathetic excuse for a Santa Claus, waving from atop a garishly decorated float in the middle of the annual Christmas paradethat travels along the street right outside the Integration Zone every winter.

“Hey, you!” The words burst from my mouth in a growl as I bare my tusks. “Knock it off with that Christmas crap!”

Santa’s eyes widen above his fake beard. He’s afraid? Good. He should be terrified.

Grabbing the edge of the float, I hoist myself up. The cheap construction wobbles under my weight, and Santa stumbles. Children scream. Parents gasp. The acrid stench of their fear scorches my nostrils.

“Grum! What the hell are you doing?” A familiar voice cuts through the chaos. Fire Chief Brokka. Damn.

Whirling around, I come face to face with my boss. He’s shaking his head in disappointment—a constant expression I see around me at this terrible time of year. It should make me feel guilty, but all I feel is a surge of defiance.

“What am I doing? I’m putting an end to this ridiculous human tradition,” I snarl, gesturing at the wreckage around us. Tinsel and broken ornaments litter the ground.

Brokka’s eyes narrow. “My office. Now.”

I follow Brokka, my heavy footsteps echoing through the suddenly quiet street. The crowd parts for us, a sea of wide eyes and hushed whispers. As we walk, I catch glimpses of the destruction I’ve left in my wake: trampled tinsel, crushed candycanes, and the dejected faces of children whose holiday cheer I’ve just bulldozed.

A twinge tugs at my chest—guilt, maybe?—but I shove it down. These humans and their ridiculous traditions deserve it. Don’t they?

As we enter the fire station, the familiar smell of smoke and leather should be comforting. Instead, it feels suffocating, much like the impending lecture I’m about to receive. The other firefighters avoid my gaze as we pass.

Great. Just great.

The memory fades, leaving me staring at the same disapproving face one year later. Brokka’s office hasn’t changed—still cramped, still smelling of scorched turnout gear and old coffee. The only difference from last year is the small Christmas tree in the corner, its lights twinkling as though they’re having fun at my expense. And why, I wonder, is the damn thing already up? It’s barely past Thanksgiving.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Chief. You’re calling me in this year on a preemptive strike? I haven’t even done anything… yet,” I mutter, crossing my arms and leaning against the wall. The familiar motion brings small comfort in this uncomfortable situation. I may hate Christmas, but I don’t want to alienate my friends.

Brokka sighs, running his hand over his chin. “Grum, we’ve been through this. Your behavior last year was unacceptable. We’re Others. For over a quarter of a century, we’ve been working our asses off to gain acceptance. Your little… tantrum last year undid a decade of inroads we’ve made. And now, some of your brother firefighters are complaining about… attitude.”

“Attitude?” I use all my self-control to keep from bellowing. “I haven’t destroyed any of the Christmas ornaments they’ve hung. And the only reason the mistletoe disappeared was that I was… hungry.”

My fellow orc firefighters ratted on me? Brothers, indeed. I’m used to complaints from humans, what with their delicate sensibilities. But the guys here in the Integration Zone who I’ve known my whole life? I shake my head, ready to finish getting chewed out so I can return to work.

“This is serious, Grum. Your fellow firefighters have a right to a pleasant workplace. It’s a religious holiday, you know. We, more than anyone, should embrace diversity and endorse tolerance.”

Did he write and memorize that speech? It sounds like it. But, honestly, I have nothing against the religious part of the holiday. It’s just the sheer… cheerfulness of it all. Happy this and merry that, and what do we have? We have to live in this ten-square-block shithole, in crumbling buildings, all because over twenty-five years ago we were pulled through a Rift by unknown forces and deposited on the sands of the Mojave Desert. When will the humans acknowledge that we belong here as much as anyone else?

I return from my mental tangent to be greeted by Brokka’s disapproving face. He said my firefighting buddies find my behavior unacceptable? I thought we all agreed this Christmas stuff is ridiculous.

“Look.” Brokka’s voice takes on that annoyingly patient tone he uses when he thinks he’s being reasonable. “I get it. The holidays are tough for a lot of us. But you can’t keep lashing out like this.”

The urge to roll my eyes is almost overwhelming. Instead, I adjust my hair tie, pulling my messy bun tighter. “So what? You gonna fire me?”

“No.” Brokka leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. “But I am ordering you to do community service.”

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. Ordering? Community service? “What?”

“You heard me. Starting tomorrow, you’ll be helping with the Integration Zone’s Santa’s Workshop event. It’s a joint effort—humans and Others.”

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