An Explosive Chemical Interlude

There is a star.  In the sky.  And it twinkles.  And it sparkles on the house in the field of a small town where a troll lives.  Sam the troll, though not a troll, is a grumpy man without a wart on his nose.  He’s not old, not bad looking, but he’s so grumpy that his neighbors think he is actually a troll.  When his garbage can is filled up he kicks it over because he is grumpy at it for getting full.  When his shower gets dirty he pounds the tiles because he is grumpy at it for getting dirty.  He does however, have great abs.

One morning after the star was done twinkling and had gone to sleep, a pretty cinnamon colored girl rang grumpy Sam’s doorbell.  She was selling cookies.  He answered the door with his grumpy face and his grumpy long stringy balding hair and said, “What do you want witch!”

She replied, “I have cookies, delightful delicious cookies.”

“Delightful delicious?  I don’t want those.  Send them away.  I want grumpy stinky smelly cookies, with a frown.”

“Well I don’t have those.  I am sold out.”

“Who do you work for?  Who sent you?”

“I work for myself, and the wizard.”

“The wizard on the hill, I don’t trust him,” he grumped.  “I don’t want any pink frilly cookies, go away.”

“But they are free.  Yes.  I can give you ten for the price of one, but there is one catch.”

“What’s the catch,” he farted from his grumpy lips.

“You have to let me kiss you on your wartless nose.”

“No.  I won’t allow that.  If I did, it might shed a shade of gray from my mood.  I might enjoy it for a second, so no.  Go away.  Find yourself another sucker.”

“Suit your smelly self Mr. Troll.”

With that she turned around and her pink tutu whiffed up in the wind and her perfect little butt bounced down off his stoop and into the lane.  The sound of thunder rolled, but only in Sam’s head.  “I’m not a troll,” he yelled after her.  “I’m a grump.  But no troll.”  And he continued under his breath muttering to himself, “and I don’t like guns.  I never shoot anything.  I’m a gentle grump.”

He went inside and sat in front of his television which was set to a channel of gray static dots and fuzzy sound.  This soothed his grumpy mind.  And then he went to bed and the next morning the girl, the pixie lady he would call her, returned.

“Hey pixie lady, I don’t want your fluffy fart cookies,” he snorted through his teeth, though secretly he did.

He had been working on his abs for a decade and eaten only green vegetables and the fish he had trapped in the stream with the net that he rigged up permanently there.  He deserved a sweet treat, as hard as he had worked all this time, as grumpy as he was.  But he knew sugar was his fatal weakness.  He remembered the past; the pact with the wizard; the sugar danger.

She bounded on to his door, her pert tight-bra’d breasts perfectly pointing up at him to say hello.  He repeated, “I don’t want those fart tarts.”

“And why not, it’s a sunny morning with a full rainbow in the sky and a grumpy troll should enjoy a fancy little cookie or ten.”

And she handed him the tray she was carrying before he could say no.  He belched a loud odiferous belch over the cookies to which she responded with a buttery laugh, and his tongue made a searing sound and for a second could be seen to fork into two red spears.

He gurgled and growled, “Keep those fart tarts away from me you foul pixie.”  And she grabbed the cart and ran off down the street laughing and fluttering like a little fairy who’s too drunk to fly.

But something happened in that moment.  A small pink maple strawbrizzle swirl cookie fell down on the edge of the Troll’s path beside his garden of dandelions and armpit-grass lawn.

There it lay.  It glowed a pink glow, pulsating and emanating on the edge of the path.   The troll went inside without noticing it.  But he didn’t sleep well that night.  His dreams were troubled with bright pink lights and swirling candy vortexes, and that filthy sexy little pixie kept poking him and kept trying to shove crumbs into his mouth.

He awoke suddenly before dawn, brushed his long straggly greasy hair aside and walked out his back door down to the stream where his fish net was.  He grabbed two small struggling fish that the net had trapped overnight.  He put them in his pocket and took them home and cooked them and ate them with the broccoli that he had grown in his yard.

When he was preparing his Italian cornmeal to go with his fish and broccoli a small fly landed on it.  “Don’t touch my polenta!” he shouted grumpily at the hungry fly, who then flew out the open kitchen door into the more friendly morning.
He then looked out his front window and saw it.  A large pink mushroom had grown on the edge of his path and was pulsating, glowing, and growing in size.  He knew what had happened.  The sugar wizard had planted a curse on him through that damn pixie lady.

He did not know what to do.  He panicked.  He grabbed his Indian drum and shaker and began dancing and chanting around the room, grumpily, angrily.  And the floor in his three-room house shook and heaved and began rocking back and forth.  It rocked so violently that it began to liquefy and then to caramelize.

And the neighbors noticed and they watched in glee and terror.  And the whole house was shaking loose from its foundations and began floating and rocking like a grumpy pirate ship with roots and teeth of earth hanging from under its foundations.

Then the pixie bitch returned.  “I saw the nasty pink stinker you laid in my yard bitch,” he bellered from within his twisting walls.  His neck was wrenching and his eyeballs were stretching harshly by now from the centrifugal force of the mixing bowl that his house had become.

“Yes, yes and what a delicious supper you will have when the mixing is done.”

He tried to respond but his house was a pink spinning ball of candy mud and angry man juice and all that came out was a series of sputtering strangled grumbles.  He tried to yell again but what happened instead was his tongue stretched out of his mouth, became a long string of taffy, and broke through his candy glass window.  As the house spun like a wild top, his tongue slapped the pixie lady on the ass faster and faster with every revolution. This delighted her ever more and more.

And then as she sang a song of glee about sugar and red dye and dripping barbecued hydrocarbons, everything stopped.  The man had become still.  The house was motionless.  It rested in its place.

Then from the golden gleaming door he entered the dew and syrup covered morning.  Adorned with nothing but a crown of honeycomb on his lower middle regions, his abs as perfect as a pot-smoking Olympic swimmer’s, his hair, a light mauve twist, he waltzed out onto the stoop and said clearly and in a low-Elvis accent, “The curse has been lifted.  I am free to eat sugar once again.  Thank you very much ladies and gentlemen.”

With that the two appeared before the gathered onlookers, who consisted of the neighbors, a reindeer, a small fly, and a wild horse.  The troll and the pixie then transformed into two giant 4-foot long bees and buzzed together in the tree in the front yard, knocking off several large branches one of which hit the reindeer on the head, creating a new antler, and scaring him off in the process.  The sound was like two jackhammers in competition but faster and of a higher vibrational state.  It was sex transmutational.  They then flew off in a flash of piss yellow light into the morning sky, Sam and the Cinnamon Pixie.  The neighbors went back to their business not even realizing that a little sugar never hurt even the grumpiest of trolls.

The wild horse opened a candy store.