In the heart of the snow-covered mountains, a great castle looms through flurries and silence. A lone mountain man, bundled in thick fur, guards the gates with an unflinching stare. Beside him, a fierce winter woman watches with eyes as sharp as icicles. A wise penguin, clad in spectacles and puffing a frosty pipe, scribbles thoughts in the snow. Not far off, a Prius with cartoonish eyes and strong limbs marches through the blizzard on two legs, defying terrain and logic alike. And bound in chains, flexing with pride, Prison Santa roars with laughter—tattooed and shirtless, dragging his iron ball like it weighs nothing. These mountains aren’t just cold—they’re alive.
