Page 4 of The Grinch Who Stole Orcmas

As I reach for a wreath, Joy pops up beside me, a streak of gold glitter sparkling across her cheek. “Oh, and don’t forget to fluff them a bit before hanging. They need to look full and festive!”

Fluff. Festive. The words make my skin crawl. “Whatever,” I mutter, grabbing a wreath and stomping toward the stage.

Joy’s enthusiasm is grating, but there’s something almost admirable about her persistence. Almost. If it weren’t so damned annoying.

As I’m wrestling with the third wreath, wondering how the hell to make it fluff, my sensitive orc hearing picks up hushed voices from the storage room behind the stage.

“Someone needs to talk to her,” a woman’s voice whispers urgently. “This is getting out of hand.”

“It’s definitely gone too far, but you know how Joy gets about Christmas,” another voice replies. “It can be a hard time. I think she overcompensates…”

They think she’s having a hard time? Why would they say that? To me, she acts like she just won the lottery.

“Shh! Let’s just go talk to her. As a group, she’ll have to listen.”

My ears prick up as the storage room door opens and a group of human volunteers file out. Joy told me they help with the Santa’s Workshop event every year. Their expressions range from uncomfortable to downright annoyed.

“Joy?” one of the women calls out. “Can we have a word?”

Joy bounds over, tinsel trailing behind her like a festive comet. “Of course! What can I do for you? Need more ornaments? More lights? I’ve got plenty!”

The woman sighs. “Joy, honey, we need to talk about… all this.” She gestures vaguely around the hall.

Joy’s smile falters for a split second before bouncing back, brighter than ever. “All what? Isn’t it coming together beautifully?”

One of the women steps forward. “Joy, we appreciate your enthusiasm, but… the 24/7 Christmas music is driving everyone crazy. And the mandatory ugly sweater rule for volunteers? It’s 70 degrees outside!”

“Yeah,” a short woman in the back mutters, “and why doesn’thehave to wear an ugly sweater?”

“Really, Karen? You want to hidethat chestwith an ugly sweater?”

“Not to mention the glitter explosion yesterday,” another chimes in. “Mrs. Peterson is still picking glitter out of her hair.”

Joy’s smile is looking strained. “I… I’m sorry about Mrs. Peterson. But surely a little glitter never hurt anyone? And the music… well, it’s designed to put us in a holiday mood!”

Her gaze flicks from one volunteer to another. It seems she’s looking for support.

The group exchanges glances. “Look, Joy,” the first woman says, her voice gentler now. “We know you mean well. But maybe you could… tone it down a bit? For the actual event?”

Something in Joy’s expression shifts. For a moment, she looks small and vulnerable, nothing like the Christmas tornado I’vecome to know over the past few days. It’s… unsettling to see her practically crumble under their criticism.

Without making a conscious decision, I move toward the group. “Hey,” I growl, crossing my arms over my chest. “If you don’t like how things are run here, you’re free to leave.”

The humans turn to me, startled. One of them takes a step back. Good.

“Joy’s putting in a lot of effort to make this event special for the whole community,” I continue, surprising myself with each word. “So what if she’s a bit… enthusiastic? At least she cares. Which is more than I can say for…” I cut myself off when I realize that if I drive them away, all the work will fall to me.

“Well, I never!” the short woman huffs, tossing her head.

“Right.You neverseem to be lifting or toting or fluffing, or… tinseling.” I spear her with a look designed to put her in her place.

The group stares at me, wide-eyed. Joy’s looking at me too, her expression a mix of shock and… something else I can’t quite read.

“Now,” I say, letting a bit of my orc growl seep into my voice, “are you here to help or complain? Because if it’s the latter, there’s the door.” For emphasis, as though they’re all idiots, I point to the exit for good measure.

For a moment, no one moves. Then the group disperses. Some slowly return to their assigned tasks, but when others move to the door, they all follow, slipping off their ugly sweaters as they go. A few have the grace to mumble an apology as they scurry out the exit.

As the last of them hurries away, I turn back to Joy, suddenly uncomfortable with her stare. “What?” I grunt. “Someone had to shut them up. They were being… unkind.”

---