The Toss for Head or Flails. Tree!

         A charming smile beamed across Humphrey's face while he sat in his cozy leather chair, listening to 'Diggy Dop and the Imps' greatest hits on his record player.
    Porter remained glued to the red sofa. In his quivering hands was a fresh scotch, untouched and weakening under the added water of melting icecubes.
    Humphrey lit himself another cigarette, this one from his foreign collection, shipped from the Troll Highland Tobacco Company. Their smokes were strong, but at the same time, gentle and relaxing. At least that's what the package stated in bold red print.
    Humphrey took a deep lungful of smooth, cider-tasting smoke. Now that's bliss, he thought, blowing white cloud rings, something he learned to do after countless dull hours wasted in the Service. He glanced at Porter and noticed the stiff man's dismal countenance. Did he ever see pleasure in anything, Humphrey wondered, as he studied Porter's growing frown.
    Humphrey displayed one of his more casual smiles, hoping it would melt some of the frost off the businessman.
    "You don't look like your enjoying yourself," said Humphrey, blowing another smoke ring. "Scotch too strong?"
    Porter stared into space.
    "Porter?" said Humphrey, turning down the music. "Porter?"
    Porter rolled his eyes toward Humphrey. "Huh?" he wheezed.
    "How's the scotch?"
    Porter's gaze wandered down to his glass. He looked at it with curiosity, as if he didn't know what it was, what he should do with it, or how it even came to be in his possession. Right now, to him, the scotch was an engima of gold liquid and rattling, half-melted ice.
    "Scotch?" he squeaked in a broken voice.
    Humphrey sighed and flicked his ashes in a ceramic ashtray stand by his chair. He leaned back and turned the volume back up. There's just no helping him, Humphrey told himself.   
    "There's no ice in it," Porter added. He raised his glass up for Humphrey to see.
    "It's melted," explained Humphrey, trying not to sound condescending. "Why don't you get yourself another." He gestured at the bar.
    "No, no," Porter said, returning the glass to his lap. "I wouldn't want to waste it. Heavens knows the cost of this imported paste is absolute thievery."
    "Would you like to listen to something else?" Humphrey offered, hoping it would help.
    Porter shook his head, his numb shoulders slumping low.
    "It doesn't matter what that contraption plays," he said, his eyes carrying a somber glint. "Sorry Humphrey, I guess I don't feel like music right now. You go ahead, though. You play whatever you want."
    Humphrey turned off the record player.
    "You know Porter," he said, "there's a time for everything, and now is the time for talking." He got up and headed over to the bar. "Three days ago I couldn't keep you quiet to save my ears, and now, well, now I can barely get a full sentence out of you." He poured the remaining inch of bourbon from the last bottle into a large, bulb-shaped glass. He sniffed the end of the empty bottle, enjoying the sweet aroma, then pitched it across room, smashing it against the wall.
    Porter jumped in his seat and looked around.
    "What are you doing?" he cried.
    Humphrey returned to his leather chair.
    "Getting your attention," he said. "I've learned over the years, perhaps from being in one too many barroom brawls, that few things capture someone's attention as easily as the sound of breaking glass."
    "For crying out loud Humphrey," Porter growled. He slammed his glass on the table. "Must you be so completely...uncouth?"
    Humphrey smiled. "I'm glad to see you're getting some of your energy back. I was beginning to think I'd spend my final moments with a half-drunk mute. Not that I mind the quiet, but it seems overly pragmatic under the circumstances."
    "I am not here for your amusement," stated Porter.
    "Of course not, that's what the Horde's for." Humphrey flicked his ashes again. "Their our entertainment, and we're theirs."
    "I find nothing entertaining about the Horde, or whatever you wish to call that...grotesque...abomination."
    "Have you tried?"
    "No, and I doubt I will."
    Humphrey raised his eyebrows and nodded. "As long as you have your mind made up."
    FFFWWOOOOMMMM!!
    Porter sprung like lightning from the sofa and turned wide-eyed to the balacony. Humphrey tilted his head slightly to look around him.
    Lying on the balcony, ax-bitten and somewhat charred, was a tall, wide oak tree. Many of its garly limbs were snapped, or bent, and what leaves remained were a colorful, but drab mix of light green, yellow, brown, and black; the left-behind marks of a trollish flamethrower's scorching touch.
    "I always meant to put something decorative on the porch," Humphrey said, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth. "It's a little bigger than I had in mind, and could do with a little more green."
    "It's a tree!" cried Porter.
    Humphrey looked up and stared at the back of Porter's head.
    "Very good," he said. "If you can tell me what kind I'll give you a shiny new coin."
    Porter glared at Humphrey.
    "This is not funny," he sneered.
    "Not funny? How could you not find the humor in this? Last I heard, trees stopped falling from the sky after people realized the Great Books were written by kobolds."
    Porter ignored Humphrey and inched his way to the balcony. He crouched low, approaching the tree as if it was a wild panther, hungry and wanting for the kill. When he finally made it out onto the balcony, he leaned close to the oak, and tapped it gently with a trembling finger.
    A second later Porter hopped back and shouted, "Humphrey, Humphrey!" 
    "What is it?" Humphrey hollered back.
    Porter pointed emphatically at the tree. "It's talking to me!"
    Humphrey raised an eyebrow. "Do you need more ice for that icebag? A lie-down might help."
    Porter frowned and planted his fists on his hips.
    "It has nothing to do with that," he sneered. "The damn tree is talking."
    Humphrey sighed, and set his glass aside.
    "I hope this isn't some trick to get my attention," he said, ambling across the living room. "You're mother warned you about crying sheep."
    Humphrey stepped out into the warm sun and looked down at the black and brown remnants of the once handsome oak.
    He paused a moment to listen.
    "I don't hear anything," he said. "It might be that it's partial to certain people. Should I go back inside and leave you two alone?"
    "I know I heard it speak," Porter grumbled.
    "Of course you did," said Humphrey, giving Porter a look.
    "I did, dammit!" cried Porter, his face flush. He scowled at the tree like a wild man possessed, and with his fists clenched, he curled back his leg and gave the smoke-stinking trunk a kick.
    "Mind yourself, you horrid sack of meat!" cried the tree.
    Porter reeled back in surprise, nearly toppling over the railing.
    Humphrey took his cigarette from his mouth and looked down at the wrinkly skin of the tree, amazed and confused.
    "Well that's a new one one me," he said.
    "Is it dangerous?" Porter exclaimed, inching his way back to the door.
    "Of course not, you pillock," grumbled the tree. "I haven't any legs or arms, do I? Do I? No!"
    Humphrey rubbed the back of his head. He'd never had a conversation with a talking tree before, and with a belly full of brandy and scotch, he didn't know if now was the right time to start.
    "Umm," hummed Humphrey, trying to think of a plausible question. But try as he might, he was drawing a blank. What the hell do you say to a tree?
    "Where am I?" barked the tree.
    That seemed like a reasonable enough question to start with, thought Humphrey. "You're lying on a penthouse balcony on the eighty-ninth floor," he said.
    Porter nudged Humphrey with his elbow and shook his head.
    "Don't tell it anything, it might be a troll spy," he whispered.
    Humphrey gave Porter a sideways glance.
    "I'll keep that in mind," replied Humphrey. "Why don't you go inside and have a little nappy."
    BOOOOOOM!! BOOOOM!! FWOOOOOSSSHHH!!!
    "What's that?" cried the tree.
    Humphrey walked around the tree's dirt-encrusted roots, and peered over the railing, to the streets below.
    "Looks like our guests are arriving," Humphrey said, watching a sea of trolls, goblins, ogres, and imps flood through the streets and into the buildings. Humphrey flicked his cigarette over the edge, hoping he might be lucky enough to have it land on a troll's eye.
    "What in the world is that horrible noise?" Porter said, staring at the apartments across the street.
    Humphrey listened a moment.
    "People," he said, showing, for the first time, a look of worry. "It's people screaming."
    Strangely enough, Porter's eyes did not resume the usual wide-eyed look of panic, or a theatrical display of emotion, but instead, he remained distant and lifeless. The tragic horror of what was rapidly unfolding was too much for him, and his senses were becoming numb.
    "But that means they're here," he said, after a long pause. "They're in the building now!"
    Something sparked back to life in Porter, and he starting getting tense and flustered again. He was back to his usual self in times of peril.
    Humphrey stepped away from the railing and glanced at Porter. "I'm almost too glad you're here to keep me up-to-date on events."
    The remaining branches on the tree shuddered.
    "Is there any water in this flytrap dump?" groaned the tree.
    Humphrey looked down and smiled.
    "There might be," he said. "But I have a feeling neither myself or my friend here have much time to water you."
    "Just give me water!"
    Porter frowned and placed his hands on his hips. "It certainly has the nerve, doesn't it?"
    "That it does," agreed Humphrey.
    The tree ruffled its leaves again, and said, in a gentler tone, "If you two bring me water, I just might have a way to keep you two sacks of meat in one piece. You'd like that?"
    Humphrey and Porter eyed each other, with both of them sharing the same thoughts.
    Is this really a good idea? Can we trust it?
    Neither seemed sure if they could believe a talking plant, but when the sounds of people being thrown out high story windows echoed all around them, they decided to take their chances.

To be continued....