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.
I like the hobgoblin ones! You should post more of this story.
ReplyDelete~CJ