Chapter 16. Gasbag Proves his Bravery
Trolls were never fully comfortable above the earth’s surface; they preferred the darker spaces offered by their extensive caverns. Additionally, they didn’t like weather. Wind, sun, rain, all were over-stimulating to the average troll. Their sensibilities were too tender for them to be comfortable as the weather accosted them at its whim with stray bits of air or water or heat. For trolls, used to their dank and smelly cave, even fresh air was a challenge.
The trolls were pleased to note, however, that at least that one thing had improved in this world on the surface: the air wasn’t so fresh as it had been in former days. Where once it had been crisp and cold, now the air was an interesting cocktail of things that the trolls didn’t know about, but nevertheless appreciated: the slightly rancid smells of fast food, wisps of dumpster odor, and also the nice black smell of hydrocarbon emissions. The trolls found these to be vaguely homey.
Additionally, the darkness of night was more comfortable for the trolls. They were unused to the light of the sun. The initial shock that they had experienced that morning was considerably lessened now, as night settled over the town.
That didn’t mean, however, that they were prepared for what they found there.
The town, from the perspective of the lake, had seemed small. Its mushroom houses sprawled like a fungus over the surrounding hillsides, but had definite boundaries. From within the town, the trolls couldn’t see those boundaries. The further into town they strode, the bigger it seemed.
The houses themselves, from their new vantage point, no longer looked like mushrooms. Rather, they were regular and blocky constructions. The trolls couldn’t figure out what they were. Some glowed from within, with a faint eerie blue light. Some seemed to be breathing with eternal exhalations. Were these living things? Were they perhaps huge land turtles, evolved over the millennia? The trolls didn’t know. Nor did they want to find out. But the houses, at least, seemed not to be moving. As large as they were, they must be very slow-moving creatures at best. Still, they bore watching.
The cars were of more concern. The trolls saw the occasional car, off on a distant street, with its bright eyes lighting the road in front of it, its whine terrorizing the night. Thankfully, none had come close to them. The trolls determined to stay clear of cars. Evolution, they could see, had turned insects into these huge, ungainly creatures, but unlike the turtles, the cars were fast. If they took it into their minds to attack the trolls, they would be on top of them before anyone knew it. Schmoozeglutton warned everyone to listen for the cars’ whiny voices. He for one was glad that the cars hadn’t learned to be quiet as they hunted. How many of them, he wondered, would it take to bring down a troll? Not many, he was sure. Three cars, max, could have a troll surrounded in no time.
Of course, there were dead cars, too, alongside the road. Or sleeping? The trolls didn’t know. Certainly, there wasn’t any of the snoring and wheezing that accompanied troll sleep. Even dead, though, the cars were worthy of caution.
Schmoozeglutton, as he came upon the first dead car, could see its glassy eyes, the maw of its grilled mouth, and its tough carapace. It was a terrifying sight. The insects of the dinosaur age had been no bigger than a troll’s big toe: plenty big enough to give a troll the heebie-jeebies as it crawled into his bed, but not big enough to do more damage than to leave a red itchy bite. These bugs, though, were fearsome beasts. Schmoozeglutton strode well clear of the dead car, and the others followed his example.
As they began to pass more of the dead insects, however, some of the trolls began to feel braver. The young trolls, with their insatiable curiosity, wanted to see the beasts close up. The older trolls, wise in their ways, were leery of these big bugs. Sure, they looked dead, but then again they were creatures that the trolls had no experience with. Perhaps they were lying in wait. Perhaps they were baiting the trolls into doing something stupid, into getting too close, only to be snapped apart by a big metal-toothed maw. But this wisdom shared by the older trolls was no match for the bravery and stupidity of youth. The younger trolls wandered a bit closer to every dead car that they passed.
Obeast, the biggest of the trolls but no less a kid for all that, was the first to try to goad a car into attacking him. As he walked by the small blue car, he slowed. He sneered at the car as he passed, then stopped and glared at it full on. The car didn’t respond. Obeast gave it a short belch of disapproval. The car did nothing.
Was it really dead, that car? Schmoozeglutton pondered the possibilities. It might be dead, of course, but possibly it was just waiting for the ideal moment to snag one of Obeast’s limbs and drag him off into the bushes—and, as big as Obeast was and as small as the car was, Schmoozeglutton wasn’t sure that it couldn’t do it. Certainly, if it couldn’t, there were other cars nearby. Schmoozeglutton could envision the lot of them joining in the feeding frenzy that would surely ensue.
A part of Schmoozeglutton was tempted to call a halt to this madness of Obeast’s. As the leader of the Rabid Band, he supposed it was his duty to keep his subjects safe, even those big dumb teenager trolls like Obeast. Another part of his mind shushed that more careful thought, thinking that there might be something useful to be learned from this experiment, even if it did cost the troupe one of its younger members. One of its younger and fatter and dumber members, Schmoozeglutton reminded himself. In a third part of his mind (and here Schmoozeglutton was about tapped out…he found it hard, under normal circumstances, to concentrate on even a single idea, much less three at once) Schmoozeglutton knew that it would be difficult to dissuade Obeast from his chosen course in any case: how could you stop a troll bent on stupidity? He could order him to stop, but would he? If he didn’t, would he, Schmoozeglutton, be willing to back it up with a fight? Under ordinary circumstances, of course he would. He would love a fight. Pounding some sense into Obeast was one of the things he had looked forward to as leader. But this was no time for infighting. The trolls, if they got to arguing amongst each other, might well find themselves victim to a larger danger in this new world. Who knew what they were facing?
Thus, the responsibility of leadership began to weigh on Schmoozeglutton.
It wasn’t long, of course, before the other trolls got into the act of facing down the car. Two more trolls, Bilgewater and Biledumper, stalked around to the far side of the car and struck similar postures. They stood on an expanse of lawn (just as likely to be eaten by a big turtle house behind them, Schmoozeglutton thought, as the car they were challenging). The two trolls expanded their chests and squared their shoulders and narrowed their eyes. The car just sat there, though Schmoozeglutton wasn’t sure he didn’t see a small gleam in its glassy eye.
He thought again of trying to stop this assault on the car, but Schmoozeglutton knew that it was too late. He was more likely to be able to stop a single troll, even Obeast, than he was the three of them. At this point, too many egos were involved.
Obeast, not to be outdone by his smaller kindred, hurled an insult at the car, an insult common to trolls: “You couldn’t burp with a belly full of beer,” he said in dark, barely audible tones.
At this, the other trolls readied for the attack that would surely follow. Slimegobbler and Schnottblower picked up rocks as big as their sizeable hands, and held them at the ready.
This was getting out of hand, Schmoozeglutton thought. It was no longer a case of simply losing Obeast to this creature. This was coming to look like a mob scene. If the cars decided to join the trolls in a mob scene, Schmoozeglutton sensed who would win. There were cars everywhere. “Okay, that’s enough,” he said, quietly but with authority.
But his quiet authority wasn’t enough. As a counterpoint to the aura of menace that had been building, Oreo and Oleo crept in front of the car, right in front of its dead eyes, and did a little hula move. They had barely got their hips moving before they lost their nerve and ran across the lawn behind Bilgewater, but their little move had been enough to break the spell.
Droolmeister let loose with a small chuckle at the twins’ charades.
It was Gasbag, surprisingly, who really showed the trolls the nature of these bugs. Usually, Gasbag was on the periphery of whatever trollish antics were happening within the Rabid Band. But this time, he took a central role. With brave steps, he walked right up to the car. As he neared it, Schmoozeglutton felt a tightening in his belly. Then, as if the car were nothing but a dead mastodon, Gasbag reached his hand out over it. All eyes were on him as he carefully extended his index finger. Then, with purpose, he lowered that extended finger until it rested upon the car’s shiny carapace. He rested it there as he looked into the eyes of the trolls around him. Then, he took his finger away, shrugged his shoulders, and returned to the group. Obeast suppressed an unconscious shudder at that: he had been brave, but he wasn’t about to touch the ugly blue bug.
“Okay,” Schmoozeglutton said. It was past time that he reclaim his authority. “The cars are dead. We know that much, thanks to Gasbag here.” Gasbag had never been complimented in front of the group; he reddened and looked at his toes. “Let’s get going. Explore this place. Don’t forget: be back at the lake when the sun returns. Don’t forget: foodwhoop.”
Then Schmoozeglutton left the trolls with some last words: “We’re the last of the Rabid Band.” Here he took a deep breath a stood a bit straighter. “They’ll remember what happens tonight for a long, long time. Let’s make it good.”
The trolls, each of them, took their own deep breaths of the dark air of night, and marched off to find their new destiny.