The Troll

      “They’ve ruined my childhood!” Harold exclaimed aloud after watching the first few minutes of the new “Ruler of the Finger-Cylinders” show.  He angrily munched on his orangey snack and stewed over this travesty.  Harold reached over to a big black trunk and removed a blank scroll, quill and ink. He hunched over the paper and clasped the quill in his bloated green fingers, and began to write in surprisingly elegant script.

    The new Ruler of the Finger-Cylinders show is an affront to true fanatics of J.K.K. Brolkiens' awe-inspiring works! Truly, this marks the death of literature as a whole! The heads of the muses are rolling down the bloodied hill of culture as millions of viewers rest their eyes upon this most hateful mockery of past beauty! No bigger tragedy has ever been committed, no greater sin has ever befallen these eyes.   I speak not merely for myself, but for the millions of devoted disciples of J.K.K. Brolkiens!

A clippity clop of little goat hooves sounded above him on the bridge he lounged beneath. “Ahh visitors,” he said licking his lips as he lay down his quill and bag of cheese-covered fingers. He rubbed his grumbling stomach and smiled through yellowed chicklets lining his necrotic gums.