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

(sigh)

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....”

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.

Respect the Fairy

Sometimes Facebook is a never ending vortex of wasted time. Other times it is a wealth of inspirational material for writers like me. One such instance of the latter has led me to this story of infinite wonderment and fantastical contemplation.

I was sitting on my front porch enjoying a tasty alcoholic libation after a long day at work. The drink was sufficiently refreshing, and the status I read on my friend Erin’s Facebook wall was equally as entertaining. It was in regards to an open house at the school where she is a guidance counselor. The interaction went like this:

Erin, “Hi, I’m Erin.”

Parent, “Erin? OH! You’re the Respect Fairy!”

Erin, “Yes. Yes, I am.”

My immediate response was to ask for details, but I quickly changed my mind. I closed the program and let my imagination create the details of what kind of open house this was, and what kind of school employs reverent pixies.

Erin was born and raised in the United States, but after completing school, she moved to the United Kingdom (she only goes places that claim to be united). She has spent some time roaming the countryside in England and Ireland. Ireland is known for a few things. Drinking, potato famines, drinking, boiled food, Caucasian terrorism, and fairies. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had been bitten by a radioactive fairy during one of her jaunts through the Irish meadows, and unbeknownst to her or anyone around her, she was slowly turned into one herself. Instead of gaining the ability to fly or shoot webs of dust from her wrists (like a whimsical Spiderman), she would gain the power to enlighten those around her to be more respectful.

Erin and her guild of fairy-teachers and counselors refer to their annual congregation in the fairy realm as an “Open House.” That is where the children (and their parents) are treated to fanciful stories and capricious lessons. Just like the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future; the fairies each have their specialty. The Respect Fairy opened the occasion by reciting a limerick of deference and understanding.

“Each day we must pay close attention.

To the things that challenge our abstention.

And practice self-control,

or risk suffering the toll,

of that which could be our detention.”

The parents and children shivered from the strong words of advice the Respect Fairy had bestowed upon them. And after a quick bout of self-reflection, they were ushered to another room where the next fairy was there waiting.

The diligence fairy was known to promote hard work and steadfast effort to achieve one's goals in life. She preached the virtue of conscientiousness rather than the sin of sloth. Her lesson would go as such:

“Persistence is the virtue to which I preach.

And ethics are the topics that I teach.

I've seen the lethargy of the masses,

That which keeps them on their asses,

Please pardon the crudeness of my speech.”

The kids would have a harder time digesting the message at first, because of the words such a beautiful fairy chose. The parents, who had much worse in their lifetimes would immediately feel the depth and breadth of the intended lesson. And just as before, the group was forced to expeditiously relocate to another room where yet another member of the realm was waiting.

As they entered the next room, they felt a warmth in their stomachs and a pain in their corneas. The voice of the Kindness Fairy provided the tummy warmth, and the white hot spotlight pointed at the entry way caused the eye pain. She was a bit melodramatic about her virtuosity, but you can't be mad at the Kindness Fairy. She had an assortment of large fluffy pillows on which her possibly tired guests could take a load off, and offered refreshments to everyone before she began her recital. Once they had gotten comfortable and were no longer parched, she started.

“May humanity be struck sober by my kindness.

And those full of envy be cured of their blindness.

As integrity holds onto compassion,

And cruelty recruits the weak to its faction,

So the strong shall be encouraged when they find this.”

As the people in the room wept and wiped their noses, they were pulled by their arms from a seated position toward the exit. It was their turn to be greeted and enlightened by the fourth of seven virtuous fairies. It was also due to the fast approaching group of parents and children that were in the doorway shielding their eyes and covering their ears. There was a flow that must be maintained and a schedule that must be kept.

The children felt full of themselves, and the parents were so proud that they had made the decision to attend this gregarious gathering. Just as they started to pat each other on the back for their accomplishments, they were quickly brought down to earth by the next presenter. She rushed them in and sat them down on the simple, yet strangely welcoming arrangements, and meekly commenced.

“Humility can bring one to a pause.

Pride and ego are some common flaws.

Bravery is worth a note,

And altruism gets my vote,

But modesty is the ultimate cause.”

This time they were given a moment to bask in the simplicity of the words, but not quite enough time to fully plan for the grandiose nature of being truly humble. They slowly stood up and each waddled toward the next corridor; taking their id with them as they left the room.

The Charity Fairy waited in the next room to bestow her message, and she did so with the patience of one her her fellow pixies. As the group entered her roomy realm, she greeted them soulfully. She offered refreshments and healthy snacks. They imbibed the spring water and munched on the sugary noshes. As they finished, she started to whisper.

“Be open handed to all that you meet.

And benevolent to all that you greet.

Keep away from those of a pitiless sort,

Who laugh and jeer as if it were sport,

And your contentment shall be complete.”

The audience had their bellies full of sweetness and simple liquids. They were also approaching a fullness of platitudes. Yet still, they yearned for more. Luckily, the Patience Fairy awaited. She stood quietly as the group made their way in. As they made themselves comfortable, she stared in anticipation, waiting for a nod or a sign that it was time to begin. And when she received it from the last entrant, she did.

“Your wrath and your ire stir up dissension.

Your haste and your hurry, bring forth desolation.

Let stillness and fortitude guide your hand,

For tolerance and serenity be your command,

And peace shall ever be your constellation.”

They had always thought of themselves as patient and understanding, but the words of the pixie in front of them caused them to question that assumption. It was an earth shattering realization with which they were dealing. How could they ever expect to move on and learn more? Well, the Chastity Fairy was about to show them how.

As they entered his realm, they couldn't help but pull in the musky scents of mahogany and leather. The drab surroundings kept them alert for stimulation, and the anticipation for what was to come left them with a wistful yearning for a happy ending. They knew this was the seventh fairy of the day, and they could only imagine the best would be saved for last. When they first caught eyes with the Chastity Fairy, they realized all their hopes were about to come true. He didn't meet their expectation of beauty, but with a wink and a glint, he introduced them to their lesson in purity.

“Our higher being tells us to be chaste.

But I don't think that applies to ass.

So pucker your sweet lip,

Then we'll play just the tip,

Now get the hell out of my class.”

They wondered if he was inebriated, or just one of those generally saucy types of people. You have to believe at least one in seven fairies has to be the black sheep of the realm. Thankfully, the group recycled back to the Respect Fairy before they left. Erin explained to the parents and their children to not mind the Chastity Fairy, “He is a silly chap, and shan’t be held to account for his actions. He's still coming to grips with his assigned virtue.” Luckily, the rest of the ladies are there to see him through it. He should be better by the time next year's “Open House” comes around.