Honey, the Trolls are Back!

©Rhonda L. Nolan

Smokey was reading the Sunday paper, when his wife came flying through the kitchen door. Her flaming orange hair was a total mess. She had a flushed face and her arms were flailing like a highway construction worker on high doses of amphetamines. There was dirt all over her frightfully colorful garden smock, and a large tear on her right scalloped sleeve.

"HOOOONEEEEY!" she wailed, loud and piercing -- like a distress signal from Mars.

He dropped his paper. The neighbor's dog was howling at the high pitch of her voice.

"HONEY, THEY'RE BACK!!!"

Marci was trembling and bellowing like a tuba. The kitchen walls were not going to hold up too much longer. Smokey was prepared to run for cover.

"Who's back, honey?" he reluctantly asked, too afraid to know.

"YOU KNOW WHO!" She was becoming enraged now, as though her fear had a multiple personality disorder and had quickly converted to anger.

"THOSE DAMN LITTLE TROLLS!" Her face began to slowly turn red from bottom up like a barometer, as her clenched fists beat imaginary drums. A cartoon character would have been quite envious of such a sight.

"Oh, Honey, not the trolls," he exclaimed, visibly exasperated. Smokey shook his head back and forth like a pendulum on a clock. He was dreading the inevitable. Troll season was here again.

"Yes, Honey, THE TROLLS. They are back and they are taking over my garden. Do you hear me, Smokey? Taking over my beautiful garden! I will not have it! Not this year!"

Again, her emotions flipped a switch and she burst into tears -- wailing and sobbing like a baby who had just witnessed her pacifier being crushed by an eighteen-wheeler.

"But Marci, I sprayed the Azalea bushes real good with loads of pesticide. And I set out all those mouse, I mean, troll traps. I even put up the scarecrow, you know, the one that resembles your brother, Howard -- before he gained weight?"

Smokey was desperate, pleading. Anything to ward off "the dreaded trolls."

Marci wouldn't hear any off it. The trolls were back and she wasn't going to stand for it. Not in HER back yard! Suddenly, filled with an unexpected source of undaunted courage and determination, she grabbed the fly swatter and stomped back out the kitchen door.

Smokey immediately ran to the bathroom cabinet to get her medication. Perhaps she hadn't been taking it lately, he thought. Either that or it was time to call "TROLL BUSTERS."

Wild eyed, Marci slowly tiptoed around the white picket fence that surrounded her precious little haven. As she silently rounded the corner, she spotted two of the little imps digging up all her newly planted Petunias. They were gobbling them up like candy, drunk on the dew, then using the stems as dental floss.

"Gobbagobbagobba," the ugly green troll said. He smacked his lips like a hungry little beast. Droplets of drool dribbled from his nasty, matted beard.

"Mookeymookeymookey," the plump purple troll replied, as he looked around greedily for dessert. Snapdragons were nice and sweet! He grunted like a hog and began to feast as though he hadn't eaten since the Middle Ages.






"Heeheeheeheeheeheehee," they both snickered as they gleefully slapped their three-fingered hands high above their pointed little heads.

SWAT!

Down came the fly swatter like a big hand from the skies. It knocked the purple troll for a loop, and the green troll went rolling head-over-heels through the mud.

"That's what you get, you little good-for-nothing nuisances!" Marci yelled.

The purple troll was cross-eyed -- and watching imaginary little birds swarming around his head. His squatty little friend managed to help him up off the ground, and POOF -- they were gone.

"Hmmpf," she puffed, "That settled that!" Marci stood proud and victorious. Her large floral print dress was blowing in the wind, with the fly swatter held up for all to see, like a scepter.

Suddenly, she heard an awful noise, a sound that couldn't be, mustn't be -- SNICKERS!

She swung around and there, around the oak tree, was indeed Snickers, her brown poodle, tied upside down with the clothes line. The dog's eyes were big with fear and he was whimpering helplessly. His floppy ears were touching the ground.

The two trolls were dancing a victory dance nearby. They moved well for creatures with feet and no legs. Quite well, if fact.

"Blahblahblahblahblahblahblah," they sang, breaking into the Macarena.

"Nananananaaaaaaaaa!" One troll stuck his fingers in his ears and wiggled them as he stuck out his slimy tongue.

"SMOOOOOOKEEEEEEY!" she echoed. Nearby traffic came to a screeching halt.






Marci was so distraught over her "baby" Snickers, she fainted in a heavy heap in the wet grass -- face first. Smokey had heard the yells and came running outside, medication in hand. He found her on the ground, with her dress up over her head and her bright yellow polka-dot panties showing. Snickers sat calmly nearby, wagging his little tail and licking Marci's face.

"Honey, are you okay?" he asked. "Honey, Honey, wake up!"

Marci quickly sprang up as though fourteen pounds of smelling salts had been shoved up her large, flaring nostrils.

"WHERE ARE THOSE DANCING FOOLS? I AM GOING TO GET THEM LITTLE BUGGERS IF IT IS THE LAST THING I DO! KILL THEM, FRY 'UM UP IN A PAN, AND EAT THEM FOR SUPPER!"

"Marci, honey, please calm down. You know what the doctor said. Please take your medication," he pleaded.

"Out of my way!" She knocked Smokey aside with one swift blow of her hand. The pills went flying all over the grass into a hundred places. Snickers began to suck them up like doggie treats.

Now, Marci was headed for the house again. She was a woman on a mission. No one or nothing would stop her this time. Her eyes were glazed over and she was marching -- perhaps to the beat of a different drummer, but marching nonetheless.

Smokey was feeling a little light headed. He glanced around the flower beds, almost hoping to see one of the little mean, menacing trolls. If indeed they were real, he wanted to thank them.

Suddenly -- a BLAST! Smokey looked up, and to his great dismay and complete mortification, Marci had their 38 Special in her hand. She was waving it to and from, taking random shots into the air.

It was his turn to pass completely out -- dead cold, flat on his back.






The trolls crept out of hiding and began to tweak Smokey's nose. They giggled and snorted, sounding like overgrown pigs with bad colds. They began to jump up and down on Smokey's beer belly, like a couple of kids on a trampoline.

Boing! Boing! Boing!

Marci held the gun steady, with one eye cocked -- pointed at Smokey's stomach. She tried to aim at one of the little devils. She knew she could do it, if she could just catch him in the air.

The trolls were taunting her, making faces, daring her to do it.

"Marci," they whispered. "Marci, you can't get us," they cried in unison. They voices sounded like deranged, possessed children speaking through a bad phone connection.

"We dare you, Marci. Shoot us! Betcha can't get us, Marci! You'll burn in hell before you get us!" They giggled and wiggled their lumpy little butts in the air. The purple troll pulled down his pants and mooned her. Not a pretty picture, she thought.

Up and down and up and down -- they hopped on Smokey's stomach.

Up and down and up and down -- the gunpoint went. Sweat had broken out on Marci's forehead and she tried to hold the gun more steadily than ever.

BANG! BANG!

The neighbors stood and watched as the policemen brought a hand-cuffed, distraught woman into the back of the patrol car. They shook their heads in disbelief as the emergency workers put Smokey's body bag in the back of the ambulance.

"He was a good man. He didn't deserve this," they whispered.

Marci was ranting and raving as she was forced into the vehicle. The neighbors watched her in horror as she laughed hysterically while tears streamed from her eyes like a cheap lawn sprinkler system.

A young reporter arrived on the scene and stopped one of the detectives.

"What's the charge?" the young man asked.

"First degree murder," the detective said, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with a red bandana. These so-called "troll-related" crimes usually occurred in the hottest part of the year. He just figured the sun got the best of some of these unfortunate souls.

"Any known motives?" the reporter eagerly questioned him. WOMAN SHOOTS HER HUSBAND IN COLD BLOOD.. That was a story begging to be written!

"No, an investigation will follow," the cop answered as he got into the car.

"Hey, what's wrong with the dog?" the reporter asked.

Snickers was staggering through the front yard, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, high as a kite, drunk as a skunk, chasing imaginary singing mailmen.

"Poor puppy, we think the suspect sedated him heavily."

As the police car drove off, Marci looked out of the back window. Her face turned white. There perched on the front steps of her house, were the two hideous creatures, waving goodbye and blowing her big, wet kisses.






Marci screamed. The neighbors shuddered as her helpless cries were heard all the way down the street.

"Poor Smokey," one of them said, sadly turning away. "She must have gone crazy."

The reporter stood alone in the yard, taking notes. He looked down at the loopy, drugged poodle at his feet.

"C'mon, fella. I'll take you home."

He picked up the dog and then noticed that Snickers suddenly snapped out of his stupor and began to growl. The dog's teeth were in a snarl and it was staring at the front steps.

"What's the matter, pooch? There's nothing there. Poor thing, you must be in shock."






The reporter put the dog in his car and took one last look at the house. Something was eerie and strange about it, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. There was nothing unusual except that the lady had odd taste. How unattractive were the two disturbingly real statues of gnomes sitting on the front steps, he thought.

As his car sped away, the two little trolls began to dance on the front steps of the crime scene -- smoking miniature cigars and doing the Macarena.

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