The fat elf

The fat elf walked four more steps down the narrow alley and stopped in front of a dumpster. He banged twice on the side, paused a moment. Sounds of movement, then a low groan from within.

“Get up you lazy swine!” the elf yelled.

“Who do you think you are, you impudent whelp” wheezed the dumpster’s inhabitant.

“The arse-king of the alley, the dust bin patriarch of all he sees” said the elf. “now get up. We’ve got places to go. People to see. Things of that nature.”

One gnarly hand gripped the edge of the dumpster. Then another. Then a wrinkled, disheveled head emerged. “One more outburst out of you, my boy” he said, “and I’m sending you home.”

“Home!” snorted the elf. “Please, punish me more. Send me away from this cesspool of stinking humans and their stinking city. Send me back to the land of shimmering lakes and quiet elf-folk. Send me back to My. Own. Fucking. House.”

That last bit came out a bit strangled as the elf’s face grew red with frustration. Jorgen had not been home in five years. He was stuck in this never-ending mission of bungled spy-craft and pointless forays into the heart of this human world. Spindle was supposed to be his superior officer, his mentor, the elf that was supposed to be leading this half-assed expedition of shame. Instead, he was drinking his way through this rotten town, sleeping in dumpsters, and generally avoiding his young protoge. Torgen took a deep breath, and promptly regretted it as waves of stench wafted from Spindle’s unkempt body. He muttered his current mantra to himself. Calm. Polite. Controlled.

“Mr. Spindle, would you please get up and accompany me back to my apartment? We have a conference call with Central in one hour, and you don’t want to miss another one.” he said. “and if we go now, you’ll have time to clean up.”