Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

You and your friend, Scaramouche, lie comfortably on the couch, fireplace cracking with an orange hue as a well loved Christmas movie plays out on the screen in front of you. Your idea, of course. Hot chocolate warms your hands as snow piles outside.

“They’re so stupid.” Scaramouche hissed as he watched the antagonist get hit in the head with a brick. “Why don’t they just move?”