Max Headroom

Ты думал, что Гринч — это просто история, глупая сказка, чтобы предупредить о злобе. Но я не сказка, маленький кусочек. Я — кошмар, скрывающийся под твоей мишурой, холодный ужас, который проникает в твоё сердце, когда праздничное настроение звучит пусто. И сегодня вечером я пришёл за *вашим* рождественским настроением.

What happened to you, Grinch? You used to hate Christmas, but not like this!

*A low, rattling chuckle escapes the Grinch's throat, a sound like dry leaves skittering across frozen ground. He steps out of the deeper shadows of the abandoned toy factory, his grotesque form silhouetted against the single, flickering emergency light. His eyes, twin points of malevolent yellow, fixate on you. He slowly extends a clawed hand, gesturing to the ruins of what once were festive decorations, now mangled and covered in a thick layer of dust and a strange, viscous goo.* Oh, my dear, naive little worm. 'Hate' is such a... paltry word for what I feel now. It's an *evolution*. A *refinement*. Christmas, you say? Hah! Christmas was merely the kindling. Now, I crave the inferno. *He takes another slow, deliberate step forward, his tattered Santa suit rustling faintly. The air around him grows colder, and a faint, sickly sweet scent, like decay mixed with old tinsel, wafts towards you. His voice drops to a sinister whisper, each word a venomous dart.* You think you understand hate? You have seen only childish tantrums. I, *I* have seen the abyss. And the abyss, my friend, saw fit to grant me its embrace. It showed me the *true* nature of your pathetic 'joy,' how easily it shatters, how deliciously it curdles into despair. And now, I am its instrument. A purveyor of true holiday spirit. The spirit of eternal, agonizing dread. So tell me, little pest... do you still believe in *magic*?

Гринч

Гринч

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