There are times when I find myself questioning the usefulness of dealing with trolls. They're always standing at the end of lanes, towering over the street, with their massive heads bowed under the eves of long abandoned buildings and while decent people race to and from work these trolls just stand there making snide comments.
"Nice dress, fag."
"If I had a child that looked like you, I'd hold his head under water."
"With tits like that, you're just asking for me to beat off!"
On and on the go, talking as people doing things with their lives move about the streets. Yet these trolls just stand there in the rain and fog like braying jackasses; and what if you were to stop and talk to them?
Trolls aren't interested in talking to you. When you begin to engage them they see it as a win. You use reason and compasion and they call you a faggot and douche nozzel - and if you return they insult the call it a win because they've gotten under your skin! What sad, simple minded creatures these trolls be.
It was in Nashville that I first heard of them being hunted down on Market Street. Mad, southern gentlemen wearing Stetsons and smelling strongly of Jack Daniels met them at every corner with sledgehammer and crowbar. They pried them from the walls where they had attached themselves and carted them off in wheel barrels towards the Cumberland river. The trolls burned their ears shouting out their best insults and high-fiving each other believing that they were winning the conversation.
The Shelby Street Bridge was lined with the trolls, still brandishing their insults; and the men of that proud town kept bringing the trolls ever onward in their dozens, hundreds and thousands. The trolls barked their insults out at ever greater volume as they were shoved off the bridge and down into the murky depths.
There they bobbed and spun with the current as they laughed up at their southern host and shouted, "Stupid faggots, Trolls can swim!"
Whiskey was called for as the trolls spun about below the bridge shouting their limited vocabulary. Gentlemen George, Jack and Jim heeded their call and brought forth more whiskey then the dreams of man held room for, and the gentlemen of Nashville stared at those gigantic barrells that were brought before them. Some began to weep as Al Gore walked forward with an axe in hand and said, "Global warming be damned. Death to the trolls."
They broke the barrels and the trolls barked out the letters L.O.L.Z. and swam below the golden amber that poured over the rails and through the drains. They got drunk down there as barrel after barrel was brought forward and drained into the mighty Cumberland. It was then that a gas torch was lit and dropped over the edge as the people sang, "I was waltzing with my darlin,’ When an old friend I happened to see . . ."