Saturday, October 1, 2011

Sin Trolls and the Hobgoblin Pub

As Newton once said; for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The same thing rings true in the fantasy world. In the case of the fairy realm, this means that there must be promoters of the antithesis of the Seven Heavenly Virtues. I know them as the Trolls of the Seven Deadly Sins. They are as hideous as the fairies are fair. They are as ornery as the fairies are polite. And they are as sinful as the fairies are virtuous.

These trolls also have their yearly gathering during the late summer months. In preparation for that evening, they scour the Irish countryside capturing prisoners and pillaging their homes. These prisoners are subjected to two terrible things during the trolls’ annual gathering they refer to as “Open Mic Night at the Hobgoblin Pub.” First, they will be forced to endure the nastiest and most watered down libation the Irish allow. It is called Miller Lite. Second, they are subjected to hours of Open Mic poetry from the Trolls themselves. Troll poetry is known as the fourth worst in the universe. And according to the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Universe, “Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria... and the very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Sussex, in the destruction of the planet Earth. Vogon poetry is mild by comparison.” Troll Poetry is more of a mesquite flavor, yet it is still not very palatable.

Last week’s Open Mic night was a resounding flop, and that is just how they like it. In some circles it is known as the Def Troll Jam. It is not to be confused with the Deaf Troll Jam -- which is far less excruciating for obvious reasons – or at least it should be obvious. There were trolls, ghouls, goblins, imps and even a orc stepping up to the microphone that night. Each of them had their own style and panache, but all had the purpose of propagating their particular specialty sin. Just as the fairies had done to their volunteers at the “Open House” just one week prior, this time the audience was being held captive rather than being captivated.

The first troll stepped up to the stage, with his puffed out chest, and a certain unearned air of confidence. The sound of the other six trolls snapping their calloused fingers surrounded the human onlookers. The Pride Troll fixed his moldy beret so it drooped over his one blood-shot eye and began,

“Mine eye has seen the glory of the coming of the mold
With scores of spores and decomposition in my fold
This hat loosened to keep out the lighting, bitterness and cold
Forsooth you can behold!”

The crowd struggled to maintain their composure, and writhed in their seats. Each word the Pride Troll spoke was more nauseating than the one prior. It took all their might to muster the energy not to vomit on one another (which would obvioulsy create an even more uncomfortable experience for all those in attendence).

Just as they regained their composure, the next troll sluggishly made its way to the stage. He was visibly slimy, and odiferously pungent. However, the smell and sight of him was quickly overtaken by the daftness of his words. The Gluttony Troll hocked up a varitable amount of phlegm, then swallowed it back down and proceeded to recite his piece.

“Troll love ice cream, like warts love toad
Troll love chocolate, and Pie a la mode
Troll eat ice cream, by the truckload
Troll love Moosetracks, fuck Rocky Road.”

The tears of the chair-bound audience members were similar to that of an overly emotional crowd – not unlike those who watch The Notebook or Fried Green Tomatoes – but this group was crying out of fear. It also may have been because they knew that there were five more speakers to go before they would finally be released. Without mercy, the third speaker stumbled toward the stage.

The Imp of Sloth begrudgingly made his way up the three-step stairway. He stopped on the second step to either take a undeserved break, or just as a ploy to further torment the captives. Either way, it took almost five minutes to complete the ascent and set up before he got on with the lyrical torture.

“Gurgle, gurgle... slurp
Slurp, slurp... gurgle

They wondered if the poem was inspired by the great beats poets like Ginsburg or Kerouac. That is until they realized the Imp wasn't actually writing poetry, but rather he was just dozing off on stage. After he was dragged off by his mangy tail in a unervingly Apollo-esque fashion, the show carried on. Much to the chagrin of those who were left to listen.

The Greed Goblin hungered for his turn in the spotlight. He soaked up the attention of the audience, and eagerly attempted to quell the hunger for overindulgence. He grasped the microphone and spoke slowly, coveting every last morsel of this opportunity.

“The seagull sits atop the productive pelican. Mine?
The hoarder sits atop their gathered goods. Find?
A millionaire swims in collected coins. Dime.
Yet I swim in my neverending want for more. Pine.”

The ears of the patrons had begun to bleed, and their nostrils were starting to flare uncontrollably. They knew that they weren’t even halfway there yet, but they were encouraged by the notion that after 42.857142857% of the show, they had yet to suffer any seemingly irreparable harm. They were also impressed with their math skills.

The encouragement dripped out of their psyches and was immediately replaced by fear and sickness. That was because they could feel the hot breath and smell the rotten flatulence of their next presenter. The Wrath Troll spoke of a vengence known not since the Biblical age, yet his poetry couldn't adequately illuminate his fury.

“Hey ghoul, where you goin' with club in your hand?
Hey ghoul, I said where you goin' with that club in your hand?
I'm going down to bludgen my ghoul lady
You know I caught her hauntin' around town with the boogie man.”

The audience laughed heartily, but the poem's intent was to frighten them, not entertain them. The Wrath Troll stayed true to his nature and smote all those who were caught mid-giggle.

As the crowd shivered and the injured tended to their wounds. The next “poet” thought back to each of the previous troll poets and what had made their poetry so good that they all got to go before him. He wanted to have all the ice cream, mold, clubs and onomatopoieas of which his predeccessors spoke. It was not lost on him that he was the Envy Orc. It was soon evident to the crowd as well.

Are you orcish-made, elvish-laid, or are you just tauren-footed?
Mutated you with a toughened hide, I never thought you couldn't.
Is that your orc, your troll friend or just your elf wench?
You can take my limbs, they be growin' again,
Regeneratin' the skin like my voodoo troll kin.
Now tell me who's your bridgekeeper, and what you keep 'neath your bridge?
What about damsels and billy goats, is that what you keep in your fridge?
What in the underworld is with that name, why you three got that name?
Trip-trap-trippin' you march, get up off of my arch,
I want you quenchin' my parch, but you're gettin' too large.”

After digesting the lyrics they were just forced to gobble up, they longed for a curling stone to bash in their own skulls or a spear to rupture their eardrums. Alas, all they were given was an intro to the final speaker. It was a bittersweet moment. Bitter, because they knew the worst was saved for last. Sweet, because they at least knew it was the last. The Lust Troll thrust himself into the spotlight, and made sour lyrical love to their auditory senses.
“One dreary Celtic night, after many a brew
I found myself shacked up with a horrible shrew
She had boils upon boils and a nose like a crane
And something indistinguishable entangled in her mane
Whence morning light came, I lept from the bed
Thinking of nothing but wanting her dead
With my stabby stick, I began to perforate her
She's not ripe for me yet, I'll be back for her later.”

It was finally over, and the captives were released from their restraints. They screamed as they ran, and ran as they continued to scream. Off into the Irish night air. It was a night they would never forget. Try as they might. It would take 1,000 fairy limericks to wash out the ear garbage that had been compacted into their minds that night at the Hobgoblin Pub. I hope the same can not be said for those reading this tonight. However, if that is the case, feel free to read the seven limericks from “Respect the Fairy” at least 143 more times.

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