He holds a DVD copy of The Grinch, 2000, Jim Carry on the cover, fur-green caricature snarl on vintage plastic, in one hand. In the other is a VHS copy of a Blaxsploitation film, starring some-guy-named-Fred-he's-been-in-a-million-of-these-things. DVD-VHS yin-yang, extreme ends of the technological 1990s-2000s spectrum. And like him the cases glisten, aggressively. He rubs them together like he's forcing them to make love, Grinch and Blaxploitation…what does green and black make? Dark green. Grinch-green oiled with ugly little Dalmatian spots.
He finally realizes this. The inherent paradox of his breathing existence. Life in contradiction, like he's the genesis of this union, of Grinch-Green and Fred-Black. He screams, but just a little bit, and then he dies, retires to the void, ceases to fucking exist. A corpse. A cadaver. A lovely little shape of non-motion, of empty meat, of picture-perfection…glistens.
Motion. Bursting from the chest cavity, Ridley Scott-style…it's covered in nascent fur, like duckling down, colored a light almost-green. And it looks up, the onion shape of its skull suggesting a fine, arrogant mop of curling green hair that shall dominate his scalp in later years…and he does the Grinch smile, jaw peeling all the way up to his jaw-flap, a thing you'd see on a theropod. And it is the Grinchling, supping on his late mother's flesh, and All is Good.
The Grinchling plays puppet with the dead flesh he emerges out of, like a genie making clay of his lamp…Grinch-fingers supposing as they crook together…pink only because the Green has not grown there yet. Already there are flies in the flesh, speckling maggots, breeding like his birthmother has been dead for years. The Grinchling takes out of these small little maggots…new to the world, a grub, feeling through a world it only knows to be edible, to be sweet with decay, every bite transforming it into something new…and he wedges the little grub between his equally-newborn Grinchcheeks. Though the Grinchling has not formed yet–he is "ling"-his ass, the perfection of his Grinch Gluteus, is tight, firm, like rebar.
And the grub tries to escape…sinking deeper into the Grinchhole, the Sarlaac, even the poopoo Green, it finds it cannot escape. Because green grows in sweeping fields across the Grinchling's arse, capturing the little baby maggot…holding it there until the vice of Ass is sure, and the Grinchling's cleft anus is inescapable…in flow digestive juices, glistening as they drip from his ass. Now the grub shall sit there…Venus flytrap. Digested alive, slow, confounding to its stupid infant bug senses, its worldview less keen than the Grinchling…snacks, not chews, but savours.
Hand-over-hand, leg-over-leg, splindling over each other, the Grinchling travels up Mt. Grinch, or whatever it was called, im sure it had to be called something even baby jim carrey crawled up a mountain in Grinch makeup lol…but the Grinchling is not a baby Jim Carrey, no Hollywood starlet, suffocating beneath three-inch prosthetics, fur enough to drown a hippopotamus, probably just cat hair they accumulated over thousands of years and finally dumped into a cauldron of green paint in ancient, arcane preparation for The Grinch (2000). Cave paintings depict it…but this is the Grinchling, elegant in its straggling poise, clambering atop the mountainside like a drunken billy goat. Grinch-fingers seek for crevices, cavemouths, recesses it can grip to…the weather beats down on its face. The green grows into a billowing moustache across the Grinchling's face, 0 years old and he has tk use a razor haw…but as the green moustache flows and whips into the night, it slows down. The fine green fibres cool and frost. Then ice climbs into the green, the beauty of that moustache…and frostbite paints ot gelid, blue-and-white, freezing out the green.
The Grinchling attempts to suckle its own green teat–this is the secret of Grinch reproduction, you see, they are their own mothers, with as many nipples as a pit bull–but no milk issues forth. Green milk, soothing milk, tastes like Grinch-down-the-throat. Chapped, pallid lips taste a nipple so cracked it has frozen solid, the only way is to chew little tiny pieces off like ice pebbles…so that is what the Grinchling does. Sustenance for its hibernation.
The top of the mountain is in sight. The peak, beckoning…but the Grinchling cannot move any more…nerves dead, dancing limbs petrified. No more green. No more Grinch.
Ice on a frozen mountaintop. Unmoving. Dead.