The Opening event of the Gremlin Winter Olympic Games was Curling.
That was the memo, anyway.
The ice was polished to a dangerous sheen, the crowd of gremlins chittered with anticipation, and the judges sat wrapped in scarves knitted from something that might once have been alive. Stones were lined up. Brooms were issued. A hush fell.
Then, in true gremlin style, the assignment having been well and truly misunderstood and, ever so slightly left of the point, Maude volunteered.
This alone should have been grounds for postponement.
Maude waddled onto the ice dragging not a granite stone, but a wheeled vanity case that rattled ominously, like it had opinions. Balanced on top was a curling iron, 3 mascara wands and a contraption that looked exactly like a tiny torture device—spring-loaded, chrome-plated, and sparkling faintly with menace.
She planted herself at centre ice, squinted at the judges, and said, “Right. Curling. Got it.”
What followed was not so much sport as a lifestyle demonstration.
Blush appeared. Then eyeliner. At one point she produced false lashes from somewhere deeply concerning and applied them mid-spin.
One judge fainted. Another took notes.
Before the eyeliner even made an appearance, Maude addressed what she called “the foundation work.” Producing a razor that looked wildly inappropriate for ice sports and only marginally appropriate for safety, she proceeded to shave her scaly legs with loud, confident strokes. Each pass left the ice dusted with glittering green flakes, which the sweeping gremlins instinctively chased down the rink, polishing as they went.
Maude checked each calf critically, and declared the finish “silky-adjacent,” which seemed good enough for the Olympics. She demonstrated her skill, flair and dexterity not with stones on ice, but glitz and glam.
With the solemn concentration of a bomb disposal expert, Maude began applying mascara with sweeping, gymnastic strokes.
She raised the curler aloft and leaned into the contraption, clamped something delicate (possibly an eyelash, possibly a finger); each flourish sent her entourage skidding gracefully across the ice. The broomsmen tried to help, instinctively sweeping around her feet, which only increased her speed and confidence.
The crowd watched in stunned silence as she escalated.
Maude finished with a lipstick flourish so dramatic it cracked the ice slightly
and spelled “GLAM” in the frost.
At last, she stood. Not one for half measures, her beauty regime completed in full before she stood, ready for adulation.
The vanity case was kicked aside. The torture devices cast asunder. And there, before the assembled gremlins, was Maude—fully transformed, resplendent, radiant, and dressed unmistakeably as Marilyn Monroe over an air vent that had not been there five minutes earlier.
The vent roared. The dress billowed. Maude posed and blew a kiss, winking at the umpire who promptly resigned his post and left the arena.
Kevin gasped:
The silence broke into rapturous applause, howls, and at least one small explosion of confetti that may have been illegal.
The judges conferred briefly.
Curling was abandoned for the remainder of the Games.
Maude won gold.
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No one was entirely sure what for, but everyone agreed it felt right.
