troll

I had a student. My student had a friend. That friend had a job. That job had a job for me. So, my student’s friend told my student that his job had a job that I should call them about.

I said yes, confused.

“What’s the job?” I asked.

“Editorial work,” my student told me. Then added, “they pay well, you owe me a drink.”

And she was right. They did pay well, or said they’d pay well. It turned out to be a magazine for Trolls. One of those “under-the-bridge” magazines; the government was onto them a while ago.

As it turned out, trolls are a quite PC bunch.

The first article I was sent–passcode required–was entitled ‘When My Grandma Was Stoned, No One Giggled.’

The trolls seemed to have taken quite an issue with a great deal of modern lingo. (Including the word ‘lingo’ which as it turns out was the name of a well-respected basket-troll from the early 1800’s)

Personally, I didn’t care. I dislike slang and like money. (Slang and Money, coincidentally being the title of another article I was hired to edit.)

“Meet under bridge,” the text said, at the end of the month.

“Which bridge?” I asked.

“Nearest your home,” was the creepiest response I’ve ever received via text.

So, here I am. He comes up out of the water. He is big–stupid big–with jaundice hair. He is paler than I thought a troll might be. He doesn’t smile. He hands me a zip-lock bag full of cash. I take it. A number is written on the side, it is the right number. I nod. He nods.

“Good?” He says, in a deep accent.

I nod again. We stand beside each other a few more moments, awkward.

“There will be more work this month,” he growls before diving into the water, leaving a splash much smaller than him behind.

On my way back up to the surface I’m stopped. A hippopotamus, in uniform.

“Where are you going?” he asks, in Russian.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I tell him, in English.

“Where you going?” he asks, in English

“My tour group, can you help me find my tour group!” I say, bleary eyed, looking around.

The Hippo sighs.

“Go,” he says. I walk past him, heart pounding. He grabs my arm, I stop. He points back the way I came. His eyes go wide.

“There be a troll,” is what I imagine he would have said if a troll had not, at that moment, leapt up and bit off his head.

So, I run. As I do, the troll calls something after me.

But, I don’t catch it, of course; his mouth is full.

 

Author Benjamin Davis and artist Nikita Klimov created one story and one picture each day for one year. In May 2018 they published their first book, The King of FU

25 Comment on “There Be a Troll!

  1. Pingback: Best of Flash-365 – FLASH-365

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