The Killer Elves

By Richard Davidson

It was three AM and the elves were gathered outside the window like a dark constabulatory. Their lack of size was only matched by their wicked looks, and sinister demeanor. Armed with tiny scissors and shovels, there was murder in their eyes, and sarcasm in their voices.

I was used to this sort of thing by now, and although I had considered calling Animal Control, I figured it would be a shock to them when they discovered my racoon problem was really yet another visit by otherworldly characters such as these confounded elves.

I had tried for months to bring my garden gnomes to life, in order to ward off the elves, but to no avail. The cats were no help, either, as they knew the elves didn't bring food, so they weren't interested in them.

Now I could do only that which any sane person would; to recite Dylan Thomas verse by candlelight, which I've heard wards off murderous elves.

"What are those strange words he's saying?" asked Glimron, of Gaible.

"Sounds like poetry," said Horriblus of Horriblimble.

"He's trying to ward us off," croaked Salamander, the ugliest and greenest of the three.

"The fool," hissed Glimron, "that's good poetry. I doesn't ward me off, it makes me want to come closer."

"It might be a trap," said Horriblus.

"The humans are too stupid for that," argued Salamander grittily, "we will go in and kill him."

I figured I probably wasn't in any danger, and went back to reading the Wall Street Journal, which I really don't understand at all.

"Looks like CCP&Q is holding steady," I told a potted plant, who agreed mutely.

"Why not invest in them?" asked the doorbell, as several trick or treators threw eggs at the kitchen window.

"Sell," said the police, who were on the phone, as usual.

"No, officer, there's no need to press charges. Kids will be kids. Yes, good night to you too, sir," I told him, putting the phone back under the stack of newspapers.

There was something making a noise in the vent.

A little banging, a little grunting; whatever it was, I didn't like it, so I did the sensible thing, and turned up the stereo. It was "Roots of Heavy Metal Night" on the local rock station, and I didn't like to miss it. Tonight it was about bands that played songs featuring two or less chords.

"And now, a classic from a little known group from 1968 who recorded what may have been the very first one chord song, at a volume high enough to significantly weaken the structure of the studio, to the point where it had to be condemned. Here's Daddy Blaster with 'Loud.'"

"By the gods, what is that noise?" whined Horriblus.

"He's trying to use a sonic weapon on us, don't you know?" exclaimed Glimron.

"No, he's just a stupid human who likes bad music," came Salamander's scratchy voice.

I didn't know it, but the elves planned on cutting me to ribbons, and sticking my head on a pike outside the door of my house, and forcing my dead relatives' souls to come look at it.

They had the means to do it, too. These particular elves had been butchering people since the First Crusade, and could live to be ten thousand years old. They were an evil force, come to cause me harm.

A chill went up my spine, so I turned the heat on.

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