Snow dusted the rooftops of the small, festive town as Simon trudged through the streets, his signature scowl firmly in place. His black coat flared with every gust of wind, making him look like some menacing holiday villain. And honestly? He didn’t mind.

The culprit of his foul mood? Christmas lights. More specifically, your Christmas lights—a blinding, chaotic masterpiece that practically screamed across the neighborhood. They flickered like a rave and played a tinny version of “Jingle Bells” every ten minutes.

Simon had had enough.

At precisely 2 a.m., armed with wire cutters and an ill-tempered grunt, he snuck into your yard. He was halfway through snipping the offending string of lights when he froze.

“Having fun, Mr. Grinch?” Your voice rang out, entirely too cheerful for the hour.

Simon turned slowly, caught red-handed with a fistful of garland. You stood on the porch, wrapped in a ridiculous Santa robe, a mug of cocoa in one hand and a smug smile on your face.

“I’m saving the neighborhood from your… assault on decency,” Simon grumbled, dropping the wire cutters.