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“Prumpf! Pruumpf! Prmpf! Prmpf! Prmpf!!”
Hobgoblin resumed his toots. The six flies took turns riding the current of hot air that burst out of the tuba with every “prumpf.”
The flies were Hobgoblin’s constant companions, and really, his only companions. The one exception was a monthly visit from a cranky warthog from Pootonia. On the sixth day of every month, the gnarled beast plodded through the Mucklands with his squeaky wheelbarrow to deliver supplies and haul away harvested beans.
Much to Hobgoblin’s discomfort, the warthog would also deliver disturbing updates about neigh-boring Rancidia and its ogre problem. These updates distressed Hobgoblin immensely, so he had spent the last several years trying his best to ignore them. He’d much rather focus on pleasant things like tooting—both on his tuba and otherwise.
The flies continued riding the tuba current, every new toot an opportunity to practice flips and twists and twirls. Thanks to these flies, Hobgoblin was never, ever lonely. He loved them very much, and they loved him. The special bond that developed between hobgoblins and their flies was well known
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across Rancidia and its neighboring lands. In fact, there was an old Rancidian saying for best friends: “They’re just like flies on a hobgoblin.”
Once again, the tooting stopped. The flies paused their buzzing and toot riding to follow Hobgoblin’s eyes southward. He was looking far into the distance, past the districts of Cryptonia and Pootonia, all the way to the Onion Palace that loomed over the land. The sunset bathed the palace in a soft lavender light.
Arranging themselves into a single-file line, the flies glided onto Hobgoblin’s head and took a seat. They looked out toward the Onion Palace and let out six tiny, high-pitched sighs.
The flies felt bad for the Rancidians, and they loathed the ogre king. They stayed informed on what was happening in Rancidia thanks to a group of gadflies who accompanied the warthog every month. The gadflies warned that the ogre was scrubbing stinky creatures by the day, and Hobgoblin could easily be next. It’s true that gadflies loved to gossip, but this seemed very real, and very scary.
Again, the flies sighed in unison.
“I know what you’re thinking, guys,” said Hobgoblin with his own sigh. “The Onion Palace
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makes you think of onion soup, and you wish we could eat some for dinner. I’m sorry, but all we have to eat is bean curdle.”
The flies gave each other worried glances. Hobgoblin didn’t seem to fully understand the danger he was in, but the flies sure did. They couldn’t bear to think of their beloved friend without his stink. A hobgoblin without stink would be like a bird without wings.
On the rare occasions when Hobgoblin showed the tiniest amount of concern about the ogre king, it was always short-lived. He was very easily distracted.
“Turd blossoms!” yelled Hobgoblin.
The shocked flies instinctively darted into the little tufts of hair by Hobgoblin’s ears for protection. They peeked out to see him pointing to the Fetid Forest’s tree line, where little pink flowers sprang from the muck.
Rare and delicious turd blossoms were one of Hobgoblin’s favorite snacks. The sight of them excited him so much that he forgot two very important things: 1) he was holding a tuba, and 2) he was standing behind a fence.
Lurching forward with his eyes on the turd
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blossoms, Hobgoblin dropped the tuba, tripped on it, tumbled over the short fence, and splattered into the muck. Panicked, the flies scattered into the air.
Sitting on his butt in the muck, Hobgoblin tried to figure out how he got there. Then something in the forest caught his eye. Returning to Hobgoblin’s head, the flies saw it, too—it was almost as if a shadow had slipped behind a tree.
Hobgoblin’s heart raced and he sniffed the air. He was concerned he might pick up the scent of some-thing scary, like a troll or a forest hyena or a perfumist.
Sure enough, Hobgoblin picked up a scent, but it wasn’t anything he’d ever smelled before. It was strong and mysterious, with a slight trace of cinnamon.
Hobgoblin shivered. There was a weird smell creeping through the air, and for once he wasn’t to blame.
The flies also smelled it. They knew Hobgoblin could be skittish at times, but in this case, they understood his fear. They didn’t know what lurked in the forest. But they knew it smelled unfamiliar. It smelled disturbing. It smelled like danger.
“Hmm,” said Hobgoblin. “On second thought,
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those turd blossoms don’t look ready to pick quite yet.”
With a wary glance to the tree line and with his flies nervously gripping his hair, Hobgoblin picked himself up from the muck, gathered his tuba, hopped back over the fence, and went inside.
He closed the door and peered out of a side window into the darkening woods. Whatever it was had vanished. Although he tried to ignore it, somewhere deep down Hobgoblin knew this wasn’t a troll or a forest hyena or a perfumist—this was something much worse. From that same deep-down place, Hobgoblin got the feeling this had something to do with the situation in Rancidia.
As Hobgoblin watched the forest through his window, a disturbing vision flashed through his mind. He imagined a huge, menacing ogre lurking in the shadowy depths of the forest. A shiver skit-tered across his neck. For the first time in a very long while, Hobgoblin wished his door had a lock.
Later that night, Hobgoblin got ready for bed by rubbing his face with mud and rinsing his mouth
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with sludge. Once he felt suitably soiled for sleep, he sat down on the soft mound of muck that he used for a bed. The flies sat on top of his head with their eyes closed and their hands clasped before them.
Candlelight gently danced across their faces. Hobgoblin grasped the corked vial he wore around his neck. Inside was a little normal-looking bean. He kissed the vial, closed his eyes, and interlaced his fingers. He then recited an ancient hobgoblin prayer.
“Dear Pre-Bean,” he said. “You’re the first bean ever harvested by a hobgoblin in the Mucklands. You are the source of our pride, our livelihood, and our wonderful, hilarious farts. For that, we thank you.”
The flies nodded in quiet agreement.
Eyes still closed, Hobgoblin let loose a respectful, ceremonial fart. The flies applauded in an adorable, barely audible sort of way.
Hobgoblin yawned, and the flies nestled onto his
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pillow—a burlap sack stuffed with dried beans. He patted each of them on the head in turn and said, “Nighty night, little guys.”
Before he lay down for the night, Hobgoblin walked across the room to the little nook in the wall where a candle faintly burned. He had once powered the electric lights of his mud hut with delightfully nasty-smelling sulfide gas, but the cranky warthog had stopped delivering it several years ago.
Hobgoblin didn’t mind the candlelight so much, having recently overcome a fear of fire. But without sulfide, it was far chillier at night than it used to be. He missed the warm, stinky drafts of gas that used to waft through his hut all night.
He