Hobgoblin, Part III: The Chase Ends

“Where’d he go?” Asked Wilder after gathering himself from the tumultive transport.

“Unsure.” Replied Sprocket. “But we’ve got to get him out of here.”

“Where’d we go?”

“We’re still in Tony’s Pizza. This is the storage room.”

“The storage room? How come there’s cows in here?”

“They slaughter them freshly every morning. That way the meat is always tender.”

“I knew that there was something peculiar about their pizza.”

“The best of the best, that’s what they are.” Sprocket replied.

“So you know Tony?”

“Oh yes; I met him when he was a child.”

Wilder began to ask for clarification, but then decided against it. If one asked Sprocket to

explain a mystery, he would respond with a parable or an ancient proverb which was ten times as confusing.

“He told me that his dream was to build a successful chain of quality pizza restaurants that delivered as soon as the food was ordered, but in which the food was still baked fresh. I naturally explained to him the process of interdimensional hopping and time travel, and the rest is history! Tony began his chain of restaurants, and I got free pizza for life.”

“Most excellent.” Wilder replied in admiration of his friend’s pizza grant. “So are we above

the pizzeria right now?”

“Kind of. We’re in the next dimension up from where the pizzeria was. Tony actually

stores all of the products in the same ‘space’ as where the pizzeria is, but it’s in another dimension, so it’s not visible.”

“I’m confused.”

“Read Edwin Abbott.”

“I don’t know how to read.”

“Try it in French, then. It’s much more exciting.”

“But I don’t know how to read Fre-”

“Hush!” Sprocket interrupted. “I think I hear something.”

Wilder hushed, and listened attentively. He didn’t hear a thing.

“I don’t hear a thing.” He whispered.

“Exactly! The hobgoblin has escaped through a wormhole which leads to a town

inhabited entirely by mimes! Quick! Let’s away!”

Sprocket ran down a corridor like a madman chasing the lack of sound, and Wilder followed obediently. The things that Sprocket said often confused him mightily, but he appreciated his companion’s utter madness. Sprocket would often correct him, saying that he was eccentric, not mad, but Wilder could never remember which was which, and Sprocket always encouraged him, saying that he had always aspired to one day be absolutely mad as a hatter, which made Wilder feel much better. Sprocket slipped underneath a fridge, and Wilder made like a lemming and slid after him.

They had transported again, and were indeed surrounded by screaming mutes.

“Calm down and tell me where the beastie went!” Sprocket was yelling. The commotion ceased, and the mutes glared at them. “Oh...right then. Motion to me where the beastie went!” The motion was unneeded, however, as a great invisible building off in the distance toppled, making a glorious thunder of silence.

“Let’s away! Shouted Sprocket, and he and his friend sprinted off to investigate.

They had arrived at the ruins of the great invisible castle, and began surveying the ground.

“Look under all this rubble and see if you can find the Hobgoblin!” Sprocket said hurriedly, and began throwing shards of invisible brick all about.

“Sprocket?” Wilder coughed. “Why do we have to look under the pieces of rubble if they’re invisible pieces of rubble?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Wilder stood silent for a moment, and was about to respond that, why, yes, he did have a better idea when Sprocket resumed.

“No matter! I’ve found the creature!”

Not three yards away the Hobgoblin lay, his chest pressured by an invisible plank.

“Quickly! Get this beam off of him!” Sprocket yelled. After finding the edges of the board (a rather convoluted process), he and Wilder freed the beast, which sat there, tired.

“Why isn’t it moving, Sprocket?” Wilder asked, confused.

“It was born out of a flash of anger,” Sprocket replied. “His life span was longer than most.”

“Thank goodness it wasn’t long!”

“Yes. Even when short-lived, a shock of unrestrained wrath can create a great mess of things. Even when you can’t see the effects, they’re still massive.”

“Like this big old invisible building?”

“Exactly.”

The two boys sat looking at the dead and dying Hobgoblin for a minute.

“Why Sprocket, that was almost poetic.” Wilder muttered without looking up.

The Ballad of Sir Michael Hubbard

Michael Hubbard, so brave and bold, went to save a damsel.

    His legs were sure, his heart was strong, his odor like a ham’s smell.

He leapt upon his horse named Jim and rode into the night,

    His high-pitched voice sung sure and clear of truth and good and right.

Upon a bridge the Hubbard rode, the clip-clip-clop rang bell-like,

    When sniffing deep he almost choked, because of what Jim smelled like.

“Say Jim!” Screeched Michael, his voice was like an emasculated chipmunk.

    “You stop to shower, your stench is stench-like, go wash off all your lip-gunk.”

“Ye doofus!” Neighed the honoured horse, the Jim, the Jimmy-Jim-Bob.

    “That smell ain’t me, nor thee, but be the flatulating Hob-Gob!”

“A Hobgoblin?” Cried Mike, a’feared of digestive tract of orc.

    “Oh now I wish, indeed I do, that I dain’t smell of pork!”

“A pork roast? Ooo!” The Hubbard heard the hungry goblin bellow.

    “Come to my chambers, my friend, my pal, my satiating fellow!”

Upon this speech the bridge it tremored, it shook and quaked and stormed,

    And from beneth there came a beast, which stank in smell and form.

“Oh poo!” Sir Michael Hubbard cried. “I do not wish to die!

    “I cannot draw my sword, alas, lest I poke out mine eye!”

“Off, knave!” Horse Jim, the humble noble beast spake.

    “I’m no fool, to trust thy hand to save us from the stake!”

Thus he spoke, and thus he did, that venerable beasty James

    He seized the sword and slew the orc, as if in playing games.

And so it was, as sun did rise upon that bloody road,

    That Jim on Michael, riding strong, came clip-clip-clopping home.

Jedidiah and the Giant, Part I

    Once upon a time, there was a young boy named Jedidiah. He was small, strong, dirty, and his hair quite looked like some sort of strange animal which happened to be holding on to his head. This lad’s hair is indeed an interesting subject, and one of great dispute, as many have given account of seeing him, but none have agreed upon the colour of his hair.

    “A brunnette.” One says.

    “He’s a blondie!” Another remarks.

    “Black as raven.” Some stolid man returns.

    “Fool! He’s a ginger!” Shouts another.

    On any account, Jedidiah was just as popular as his hair. A merciful and honest person, he grew in favor with men just as the good book says. And he wasn’t too bad with the ladies, either! However popular he is now, Jedidiah was once completely looked-over. In playing games, he was more or less excluded, in social gatherings, he was hardly tolerated, and in daily life, he was effectively shunned as a leper. His parents, of course, comforted him and told him that all would be well when he was older, and that he would grow up to be a great man. This inevitably seemed to be simple fluff to Jedidiah; the whimsical exhortation of a loving guardian offered in hopes of strengthening the heart of the young against the hard and cruel world.

    “Just look for your day, laddie.” His father would say. “Jehovah is sure to present the chance, regardless of if you know how to see it or not.” So Jedidiah looked for his day, but all he ever observed were opportunities to be nice to crabby old ladies who smelt of lavender and spoiled prune juice, who ridiculed his generation’s lack of work ethic, and who constantly spoke lovingly of the hard work they suffered in their mother country, a sentiment which young Jedidiah strongly questioned. Nonetheless, Jedidiah continued in his way of assisting haggard women and oppressed men in their trials and troubles, receiving with compassion their complaints and their sorrows. So it was that the beginnings of a great man took root.

    Jedidiah stood unmoving, staring at the jowls of a large middle-aged woman as she jabbered to a complete stranger about her physical disabilities. The way her skin bounced and jiggled as she spoke was transfixing. It was like she was trying to shake it off, but it would not let go, weary as it was. Greasy dirt graced the crevices and folds of her skin, and her chin jutted out like it was silently accusing the man who she was conversing with. Jedidiah blinked twice, and came out of his stupor, realizing that the line had moved. He stepped forward one pace and then stopped. He was at the market, fetching food items for his mother, as was his custom. He gripped a papaya in his left hand, and in his right he held a mesh bag containing three coconuts. He dug his shoeless toes into the well-trodden earth and licked his lips, surveying his surroundings. He had counted sixteen squabbles, twelve crying children, four baying mules, innumerable squawking chickens, when suddenly all of the movement and noise ceased. Jedidiah’s brow furrowed, and his ears perked up. He studied the faces of the herd of people around him, trying to discern the reason for their abrupt silence. The reason was discerned rather quickly. The earth rumbled beneath Jedidiah’s feet, and the dust sprung up into the air as though it had always been there; a nearby stall of peaches collapsed immediately, and one of the braying mules began to buck away, dragging its unfortunate owner, cart and all, behind it. Jedidiah turned around, almost tripping due to another earth-tremor, and saw why everyone was silent. Staring down at the village was a huge, ravenous Giant. This was not one of the noble Nephilim, nor even the not-so-honorable Anakim; no, this was an Oggin. They were giants which were so bloodthirsty, so vile, and so all around ugly that not even the one eyed Cyclops would let them stay anywhere near them. The Oggin weren’t smart enough to fashion clothes out of vines or animal skin, so they simply caked mud on themselves to stay warm. Their hair was dirty, and was so sticky that it never blew in the wind or left their backs, not even if they hung upside down from their toes, of which there were three on each foot. The Oggin were very clumsy and fell over quite a bit, but as such their bodies were calloused and their bones were strong, including their massive teeth. The stench of an Oggin is so awful that it has been said that it is what inspired the smell of a cow farm, but this report does not come from completely reliable sources. Oggins did not travel in groups because if two Oggins walked together, only one would come out of the ordeal alive, due either to the stench of another (the Oggin’s musk glands work extra hard in the presence of another Oggin), or due to the fact that one Oggin would trip over the other and effectively turn his companion into a pancake, as it were. It is most difficult to describe an Oggin in full, and were I to do this, you would be so absolutely disgusted that you would think that a greasy fat man with an over-production of hair clad only in a speedo three sizes too small would be rather charming. Anyhow, there was the Oggin, swaying stupidly in the wind like some sort of obese old windmill, and there was the town holding its breath (in anticipation or in an attempt to block out the smell, I do not know). The Oggin looked around hurriedly, as if to see if anyone was looking, but as the behemoth was looking only for persons of its size, it did not notice the town. It’s surveillance complete, the Oggin stuffed a giant finger up its right nostril and dug around for a bit. All of the townspeople grimaced. The Oggin’s face at first seemed rather pleased, but then it screwed its face up in such a ridiculous fashion (both eyes crossed toward its nose and mouth wide open in confusion) that Jedidiah would have laughed, had he not been so disgusted. The expression of the Oggin finalized in a satisfied smirk as it pulled an entire cow out of its nostril and promptly popped it in its mouth.

    “Bessie?” A man whimpered pitifully from behind Jedidiah, as he realized that the bovine was his; or at least, had been his. The giant, after finding another beast in its belly button, scratched behind its gnarled ear...and looked directly toward the town. Each and every villager gasped simultaneously, sure that the giant would single them out, and then each and every villager screamed at the top of their lungs and began running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Jedidiah was, of course, excepted from both of these descriptions, as he was a wise and stout-hearted lad who never lost his head, no matter the actions of the chickens around him. Deducting that the giant would soon realize that the little screaming people could be eaten, Jedidiah ran to the base of the tallest tower of the town, papaya and coconuts included, and began climbing the building. When finally he reached the top, he was about eye-level with the giant, who had finally begun to walk hungrily toward the settlement. Jedidiah swiftly pulled out a coconut, threw it, and hit the giant square between his eyes.

    “Hello!” Jedidiah cried out to the giant.

    “Buh?” The Oggin responded.

    “My name is Jedidiah!” Jedidiah shouted.

    “Fluhghmbyrt?” The giant explained.

    “It’s nice to meet you, Fluhghmbyrt!” Jedidiah remarked politely. “I say, are you hungry?”

    “DAH!” The giant cheered, apparently reverting to German in his excitement.

    “Excelent!” Jedidiah responded. “Would you like to eat me then?”

    “Meeeedahn?” The giant questioned. “Aboogie-bim-glall?”

    “Me?” Jedidiah asked with astonishment. “Oh no! I’m not small in the least! If you think so, then come over here and put me close to your face. I’m actually quite big for my age.”

    “Wuggubunk!” The giant frowned, surveying the boy. “Wugga dink, ‘ah doonk, amn freinkidink schlabdoonk-”

    “Excuse me!” Jedidiah exclaimed in righteous anger. “Mind your tongue, sir!” The giant covered his mouth in uncontrollable embarrassment. “Now you march over here, and see how I get bigger.” Jedidiah said, as a mother telling her child to go to their room. During this entire exchange the town had grown quiet and had watched in utter astonishment at Jedidiah’s bravery, but as the Oggin began to stalk sulkily toward the young boy, all ran in fear. The giant moodily kicked a cabbage stand as a small boy kicks a stone. The stand went flying into the west, and a cry of “My cabbages!” was heard from the unfortunate owner below.

    “Put out your hand now,” Jedidiah said as the giant arrived at the tower. The Oggin obeyed, and Jedidiah stepped lightly into the dirty palm, which was stained with dirt and...other brown stuff.

    “Bring me near your eye.”

    “Pumpkin?” The giant asked, wishing for clarification.

    “Yes, your eye.” The giant obeyed, closing his fist and pressing Jedidiah against his eyeball. Jedidiah grimaced as the Oggin eye-juice slimed him, but the giant felt no pain. “Now see how much I’ve grown?” Jedidiah choked out, the breath squeezed out of him by the hand of the giant.

    “Oooooh! Gablaudroouk!” The giant exclaimed, extremely pleased and not understanding that Jedidiah was simply closer, not bigger. “Toughpoko.” He consented, and lowered his hand toward his mouth to devour Jedidiah, hungry for a meal that the Oggin thought might well be bigger that it was.

    “You’re eating me already?” Jedidiah asked in a refined aghast tone of voice. “Distasteful.”

    “Bugga?”

    “Well, of course it is! I’m not ripe! I’m not even my full size yet, much less my full weight!”

    “Gaboung?”

    “That’s right. Almost twice as big.”

    “Huh huh, huh huh...bum.” The giant chuckled with glee, sliding Jedidiah behind his ear, a location which Jedidiah was most thankful for in light of the placement of Bessie.

    “Well, God,” Jedidiah said optimistically. “I didn’t view this as what my ‘day’ would look like, but I suppose its as good a chance as any.”

    And with that the Giant stalked off over the hills, whistling Ticket to Ride off-key.

Hobgoblin Part II: The Wild Children

    Richard Bullhorn was a despicable person. Fortunately, he was dead. He died on a Thursday in the glorious afternoon sun at a park. The birds were singing, the sky was blue, children were playing; it was a downright gorgeous day. Many people thought that perhaps that was why Richard Bullhorn had died, for the day had been so antithetical to his nature that perhaps his grumpy and cantankerous disposition simply could not handle it, and he gave up the ghost. Or perhaps the ghost gave him up. In all actuality, any ghost would’ve gotten rather tired with gloomy old Richard Bullhorn.

    His body was committed to the earth a week after his death in a ceremony which contained no more than a dozen people. Eleven of them were made up of clergy and workmen to bury the body. The remaining one was a drunk who had lost his way, and had wandered into the cemetery. The body rotted very quickly, as it had already rotten a good deal in its life, and by a month after Richard Bullhorn’s death, small figures began making their way out of the ground where he had died. First popped out a sprite, a tiny little thing which had been fashioned out of a dandelion. Then emerged a moody little brounie which crossed its arms and pouted immediately after making its way out of the dirt. The dandelion sprite made its way to the brounie, waving gregariously, and was promptly punched in the face by the moody little furball. A rumbling sounded, and a great big beast of a hobgoblin leapt from the grave (leaving a good sized hole in its wake), and effectively squashed the sprite and the brounie entirely.

    “Heh heh heh.” The Hobgoblin laughed, sounding very much like a neanderthal. Peculiar creatures, those Hobgoblins: despite being marvelously witty when it comes to pranks and other such things, they are remarkably stupid little imps. The Hobgoblin grinned to itself (it was really much more of a grimace; Hobgoblins aren’t very good at being joyous) and leapt into the air, looking for a lack of chaos which it might fill.

    Wilder was sniffing the ground. His nose was an inch from the grass, his bohunkus was high in the air, and he was perched on his fingers and his toes, crawling forward like a greyhound. His dark brow was furrowed, and small streaks of tan skin appeared through the crust of dirt which covered him due to small streams of sweat issuing from his perplexed head. Wilder was a rather skinny specimen, but what he lost in weight he made up for in hair. Wilder’s hair was epic. No other word quite encompasses the appalling grandiosity which was his mane. The multicolored streaks stretched from the boy’s head like they were trying to get away, bugs crawled in and out of the long locks of static hair, and dirt permeated every cranny of the outlandish afro. Wilder reached a certain spot in the lawn, jumped, and landed again on all fours. He was obviously rather surprised. He circled around the spot, snorting furiously. It was a wonder that the waves of grass weren’t sucked up into his ample nostrils.

    “What is it, boy?” Another child called, running up to Wilder. This boy was also quite obviously a wild child, not meaning in this case uncontrollable, but unconformable. He could not be taught to leave the natural earth for the dignified house. His clothes were mere tatters, and his hair was almost (mark, almost) as interesting as Wilder’s, though it lacked the epic proportions of bugs, erectness, and length, and passed over entirely the abnormal streaks which made up Wilder’s locks. He was not quite as thin as Wilder either, but surprisingly toned (especially for a child of his age).

    “It’s a-” Wilder began, then stopped. He sat down (like a dog, it should be mentioned), and stared at the other boy, his head cocked to one side (again, much like a dog). “What did you just call me, Sprocket?”

    “Uh...boy?”

    “Like a dog?”

    “Uh...yeah.”

    “Well that’s just rude!” Wilder began, rather upset. “Some people just don’t understand…” He trailed off and began scratching his ear with the long, stiff nails of his right toes. “One moment, I have a flea…” Wilder said, then resumed. “As I was saying, some people just don’t understand how to behave in a respectable manner in their interactions with other people! Honestly, calling someone Boy!”

    “Sorry Wilder, it won’t happen again.” Sprocket (who, it should be noted, is the same nameless child referred to in certain other works as Young Lad) replied.

    “Right.” Wilder responded, incredulous. “I think I’ve found where some came out!” He shouted.

    “Perfect!” Sprocket yelled, and fell flat on his stomach next to his friend. “What’ve you found so far?”

    “Well, it smells just like you said.” Wilder started. “A little bit buzzy, and animalistic, and frabjous-like.”

    “That would be it.”

    “And also, we’re in a cemetery…”

    “They would commonly be found there.”

    “And there’s a gaping big hole right in the middle of this filled-in grave.”

    “So there is!” Sprocket shouted, clapping his hands together in excitement. “We’ve got a big one, we have.”

    “So which is it?” Wilder asked.

    “Oh, Hobgoblin, definitely. Neither a Sprite or a Brounie could be this destructive, at least not immediately after their advent.”

    “Hobgoblin!” Wilder said, the mere word causing his bladder muscles to tingle in anticipation. “I think I have to pee!”

    “I think there’s a bush over there,” Sprocket said.

    “My dear Sprocket, the moment is dead and buried. You really must learn to speak more quickly when these matters are concerned.”

    “Do you mean to say that you just urinated on a dead man’s grave?”

    “Well, he is dead. He won’t mind.”

    “Touché.” Sprocket replied, stroking his chin.

    “Oi! You!” A voice cried from across the field. “What’re you doin’ o’er there?”

    “Ah, we really must be going.” Sprocket mentioned nonchalantly to Wilder.

    “I agree with your analysis of the situation.” Wilder said, standing up and offering his arm. “Shall we?” He asked, bored.

    “Yes, let’s.” Young Lad replied, hooking his arm into his. Then, without the slightest mark of worry or fright, the two wild young children skipped through the cemetery, arm in arm.

    “I lost its track here.” Wilder said definitely.

    “A pizza parlor?” Sprocket asked, confused.

    “Yeah, it says Tony’s Pizza.”

    “Ooooohh...now it makes sense.” Sprocket replied without the slightest tinge of sarcasm. Wilder looked at him cockeyed.

    “Well, yes.” He said, studying his companion. “Of course it does. Because its Tony’s pizza.”

    “Exactly!” Sprocket replied, and sprinted toward the parlor.

    “Seriously?” Wilder called after him. He ran after his friend, who was booking it toward the pizzeria. Wilder entered just as Sprocket was calling out:

    “May I speak to Tony, please?”

    Wilder approached him swiftly.

    “Sprocket, you do know that not every Tony’s Pizza is actually run by someone name Tony, right? Tony is just a stereotypical italian name, so-”

    Young Lad cut him off, laughing.

    “Of course Tony doesn’t run all of the Tony’s Pizzas!” He cried. “He just founded them! Come on!” He then pranced into the back of the parlor, toward the kitchen. Wilder shrugged. He wasn’t one to hold anyone back. Just then a large Italian man with a massive black and greasy mustache swaggered into the room. He was wearing a high chef’s hat, and his white sleeves were rolled up past his elbows.

    “Why, it’s’a my Little Man!” He cried upon catching sight of Sprocket, who was caught up into the greasy grasp of Tony’s bear hug. “Boy am I’a glad to see you!” He cried. “I’ve gotta a problem with a gremalin in the back!”

    “What’s a gremalin?” Wilder asked, totally dazed.

    “A Gremlin.” Sprocket said, hopping over the service counter into the bakery.

    “It’a showed up this very morning,” Tony said, explaining. “I’a gotta here as soon as I could, but it had already made quite a mess of things, as you can see!”

    Wilder looked around, but thought that the pizzeria’s kitchen looked surprisingly clean.

    “What’s wrong?” He asked.

    “Look up.” Sprocket said. Wilder did. Right above him was a terrible black gaping hole whose walls looked like that of some sort of gaping wound in a man’s chest.

    “What’s that?” He asked.

    “A wormhole.”

    Wilder paused, collecting his thoughts.

    “Well crud.”

    “Yeah.” Said Sprocket as he leapt up into the wormhole. He disappeared almost immediately. Wilder looked at the wormhole, then at Tony, who shrugged.

    “Huh.” Said Wilder, and leapt up after his friend.

    “Ho ho!” Tony laughed. “These kids, they are crazy!” He chuckled to himself, and walked into the mouth of a paraplegic purple platypus, thus teleporting to the land of killer dust bunnies.