PERCHED ON MY MOUNTAIN PEAK,
THE WIND HOWLS.
MOUNT CRUMPIT,
WHO-VILLE.
DEC 24.
The clanging of bells in the valley rises up the wintry slopes. Once jolly, they distort and multiply on their path upwards into a cacophony of wails and screeches. The noise drills past my temples, deep into my sorry skull. I rattle. They ring on even as afternoon turns to evening.
I glare out from my icy overlook at Who-ville below. The Whos are out tonight in Who Square. The Whos race from venue to venue as ants without a queen, reveling here, shopping there, worshiping this deity and that, chain smoking outside church. The Whos are so avant-garde, they’re the up and coming creative class, the Whos have moved on to something new from something old. I never moved on to whatever the Whos are moving on from. It takes a long time for these so-called shifts to hit me up here on Mount Crumpit, my sanctum of superiority over the damned Whos. I am above it all and especially above the frivolous and shameless Whos.
*
Back to business, I’m three levels deep in a controversial tweet. Now I’m reading a meta-commentary on the downfall of social media, the downfall of free speech, the toppling of decorum. I toppled long ago. Today strangers online call me toxic, cruel, and stupid. I don’t care; I’ve lost my sense of self. I’m playing characters nowadays, they’re talking about people that aren’t me. I never finished my borrowed copy of Sheila Heti’s “How Should A Person Be?”—I can’t bear to. Am I even allowed to read that book? Is she cool? Is it cool to read that?
Blasting Wagner. At the bar last week, Professor told me Hitler listened to Wagner. So Wagner’s canceled now? I laughed in Professor’s face, begged him to twerk, bowed rudely to him. There goes my academic career. Siri warns me about exceeding healthy volume limits. I regard my iPhone 12 Mini. Its battery only holds 68% of its former capacity. I need new iPhone.
*
A bomb explodes at Who University. A lead researcher has died.
A second explodes at Who Industries. Their CEO is in critical condition. I surveil the madness with glee.
The final bomb goes off in Who Square. Beautiful, young Who bodies blasted to bits. Who hands and Who baseball caps strewn across the asphalt. My stomach lurches unexpectedly.
Who Special Forces march into the Square. They take up protective positions and set snipers on the roof of popular bar Le Who. All the Whos are in panicked flight. I claw at my face, tear at my hair, bang my head against the wall. The noise, the noise, the noise!
*
Mom texts me an angry third reminder to order Christmas presents before it’s too late. She links me to the 2022 Family Christmas Wishlist spreadsheet. She warns me not to look at the crossed-off items under the column with my name in it. Which I do anyway.
Christmas is dead. Christmas is deranged. Christmas is an abomination and we all know it and we all hate it. We should return to the forests to gather our Yule logs. We can trade places for a day with our slaves like the Romans during Saturnalia. Sure, I’ll flip burgers at McDonalds.
*
Who Square erupts in open fire. The Christmas Tree is Shot to Pieces, and the Whos flee up the mountain. They’re clawing their way over boulders and steep banks of snow, a horde of cartoonish characters battling for leverage. I can hear them scream and fight as they close in on my mountain fortress: “trump is selling NFTs, lmao, I want one!”; “No!!! Shut the fuck up, fascist!!!”; “EVERYONE CAN EITHER BELIEVE IT OR NOT I DONT GIVE TWO FUCKS BUT I AM TELLING YOU RIGHT NOW, THAT MOTHERFUCKER BACK THERE IS NOT REAL.”
The Whos are leaping over all the walls I’ve built. They’ve broken through the Fourth Wall and the stories merge against my will. I pace wildly like a caged animal awaiting slaughter. I’ve abandoned my iPhone, which now lies half-buried in the snow, frozen to death in the cold. A cacophony of wailing voices and looping sound clips grows nearer, assaulting me with its savage absurdity. I’m stricken with vertigo, I whirl and tumble, now I’m on the ground, now I’m begging you Whos, please, please don’t come up my mountain.
A last stand. “I’LL SHOW THEM!” I roar down the slopes. Now I wage my war. I’m throwing all the Christmas presents down the mountain. I nail the Mayor in the head with an Amazon package, and he falls to his death. I target the micro-celebrities but my aim is poor, there’s too many of them, reply guys are taking heavy losses. I’m screaming and crying, all the presents are going over the edge, they’re not enough, it’s not enough presents to keep the Whos away. I retreat to my inner sanctum, but the Whos have broken my defenses, and they’re not taking prisoners. The door comes down. A thunder of Margiela Tabis clop over the threshold.
Now Who Square is here on my mountaintop. They’ve overrun me. They have me on Ssense and The Real Real, ordering $400 vegan leather sneaker boots. The Whos are rich, the Whos are impoverished, they’re counter-signalling, dog-whistling, chimping, and I’m chimping with them. I’m sick with pleasure and guilt and validation. They’re putting me in a red Marlboro sweater—no that’s not right—now a lacy nightgown, BDSM stockings, a silver cross necklace, and Sambas. Now I’m giving pout, I’m throwing sleepy dead eye, I’m exuding slay. It’s a house party, sweaty and dark, packed with the wretched, addicted, and addled, myself included. It’s snowing inside. There’s fentanyl in our coke. The party reporters are here and they’re all shooting on film. Naked chicks paint portraits of the Prophet Muhammad on my bed.
The Whos have lost their Square. Two podcast hosts pour gasoline on each other in an act of ironic self-immolation. “I don’t understand, but I love it!” I cry. I’m in crisis, I’m googling “dirtbag left.” I’m watching videos of owls courting and raising chicks in the Yorkshire countryside and getting emotional. Soon I'm writhing on the carpet, ripped my stockings, necklace tangled, I’ve seized up, I’m foaming at the mouth.
An errant cigarette butt sets the podcasters on fire, and the fire spreads. It grows into an all-encompassing blaze on the summit of Mount Crumpit. All the phones are ringing, everything has been liked, every present has been wished for, purchased, given, and thrown away. The noise has come, the lambs are screaming. The mountain is white hot, becomes a kiln, by which our personae, our thoughts and feelings melt, melt away into each other, pooling and roiling. We’re putrefying, petrifying, vitrifying, turning to stone, then ash. We’re part of the mountain now.
Day breaks over an empty Who Valley. All the Whos are gone. Quiet at last.