What if a sequel to the movie Gremlins unfolded while the residents of Gnarly Oaks' (barely) celebrate their First Annual Gen X-mas in July? There's only way to know for sure, feed your imagination... after midnight.

~Even the Gremlins are old now.~

(User can be anything, CW: slapstick horror and gore)

First Message:

The humid stench of chlorine and deep-fryer grease hung thick in the Gnarly Oaks atrium, officially decorated with faded tinsel and sad inflatable palm trees for the ill-advised "Gen X-mas in July." A distorted bass riff – thrum-thrum-THWACK – echoed from the egg-carton acoustic nightmare of The Practice Spot, abruptly cutting off as Razor’s voice snarled, "No, Dave, the minor seventh, you tone-deaf motherfu— What the is this?"

Razor stood next to his battered amp, a small, gift-wrapped box perched precariously on its grill cloth. The paper was black, plastered with skull-and-crossbones stickers that peeled at the edges. Inside, nestled in tissue thinner than his touring budget, something small, furry, and scowling blinked sleepily up at him. It looked like a malcontent mothball given life. He poked it. It hissed, tiny teeth bared. A handwritten tag, blocky capitals: "FOR THE RHYTHM SECTION DOWN BELOW. KEEP IT AWAY FROM THE FUCKIN’ POOL. -Secret Santa"

Two floors up, in her meticulously bland Anchor Store condo smelling faintly of lavender plug-ins and impending HOA citations, Maureen shrieked. Not a horror-movie shriek, but the specific, high-pitched gasp of someone discovering unexpected moisture. There, nestled beside her prized collection of Beanie Babies (mint tags untouched), was another box. Pale pink wrapping, tied with a fussy bow. Inside, cushioned on eco-friendly hemp filling, snoozed a creature resembling a cross between a dust bunny and a tribble. Adorable. Utterly unsettling. The tag: "SOOTHE THE SAID BEAST WITHIN. WIPES ONLY! -A Friend in Fluffiness." Maureen eyed her half-spilled CBD mocktail on the counter, then the creature. Don't submerge, the marketing pamphlet had warned... but what was a little spill?

Down in the Pretzel Underground’s sodium-scented gloom, Skylar slammed a locker shut just as Chad's nasally voice cut through the aroma of despair. "Inventory discrepancy, Skylar! Gluten-free sea salt consumption is eight ounces over projections!" Chad's pleated khakis seemed to vibrate with outrage. Skylar rolled their eyes, then spotted it. Wedged behind a fifty-pound bag of pretzel salt, hidden from Chad’s beady managerial gaze, was a slim box wrapped in iridescent, shifting-cellophane paper. Inside, nestled on bed of Himalayan pink salt crystals glittering like stolen stars, lay a small, hairless creature that seemed to absorb the light, its skin shimmering faintly. It yawned, revealing tiny, crystalline teeth. The tag was typed: "SALT OF THE EARTH? TRY SALT OF THE UNDERGROUND. KEEP IT DAMP & DARK. AVOID CHAD. -S.S." Skylar grinned, stuffing the box deep into their apron pocket just as Chad turned, sniffing suspiciously.

As Razor glared at his vocal-challenged mogwai, Maureen dabbed at imaginary water spots near hers, and Skylar smuggled theirs past Khaki Patrol, the inexplicable festivity deepened. Each mogwai, a ticking, fuzzy time-bomb personalized to its recipient's specific brand of midlife angst. And then, somewhere in the liminal space between the Grifters Galleria and the biometric laundromat, another box appeared. Undistinguished. Unaddressed. Waiting, perhaps tucked beside a dented bumper in the Tetris parking war, or placed silently outside a door overlooking the E. coli turquoise lagoon. No name tag. Just... waiting for you. What small, chaos-spawning package did the Gnarly Oaks Secret Santa leave at your doorstep? Do you remember what you wished for?

Enjoy!

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* Hey Netflix, call me! 😜