The Hog Troll

Maynard P. Mudd sucked his cigarette till it burned.  He held the smoke, black and hot, then let it pass through his teeth like dragon’s breath.
“Were almost there,” he said.
The man at his side, manicured in the worst fashion, tiptoed through the snow.  “Who exactly are we looking for?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“No.  Well, not really.  Some guy called Troll.”
“That’s not what they said.”
“Then what did they say?  I don’t recall you being there.”
Maynard couldn’t help but smile.  Another day, another snooty know-it-all. 
“What’s your name again?”
“Stacey Jepps,” he said, patting slush from his trench coat.  “I think I’ve told you that.”
“It’s a girls name.  Hard for me to remember.”
“It goes both ways,” said Stacey.
“Oh I’m sure you do.”

The snow fell in sluggish cotton heaps.  Maynard paid little mind to the newcomer.  He kept Stacey to his right.  His bad ear was the right one, and it was easier to ignore the man’s questions if he didn’t have to hear them.  But soon Stacey stopped walking.  Something had caught his attention.  Probably a tree, thought Maynard.  He doubted the boy was accustomed to things like trees, dirt, and other things of the woods.
“Stop!”
Maynard turned to Stacey, crouching now at the edge of the road.
“Yeah?”
“It’s a body.  My God, man, it’s a dead body.”
“So that’s what they look like,” said the old-timer, pulling another cigarette from his case. 
“You’re kidding, right?  You’ve seen a dead body before.”
“Oh yeah, plenty.  Usually not so intact, though.  He looks good.  Now lets go.”
“Shouldn’t we help him?”
“I think it’s a little late for the Sinner’s Prayer.  Come on, were close.  I bet he smells us.”
Stacey stood, his face twisted with grief. 
“Who smells us?”
“The troll.”
“The troll?”

The trailer was exactly what Mudd had in mind; Clothes Line, faded kiddy pool, satellite dish the size of a hot tub.  He gripped the butt of his 45.  The shivering mess at his side followed suit. 
“Put that thing up, son.”
“You’ve got yours?”
“Well I plan on using it.  But it won’t do me any good if you shoot me first.”
Stacey played the toddler, pretending not to hear.
Maynard was done with jokes and small talk.  This was his game and his rules.  He pushed a round into the 45’s chamber, cocked it, and set his aim on Stacey.
“What are you doing?”
“Put it away.  I won’t say it again.”
Stacey moved slow, haltered his gun, and put his hands out in  halleluiah fashion.
“Now put your hands down.  This ain’t a stick up.”

Maynard lowered his gun.  He put his hand into the pocket of his trench coat, and retrieved two small stones.  He tossed one to Stacey.  It fell to the snow at his feet.
Maynard eyed his partner for several seconds, then walked on shaking his head.
“What is it?”
“Just put it in your pocket.”
“Its just a rock.  Listen, if I don’t know what’s going on then I can’t help you.”
Maynard was losing his edge with Stacey.  The boy couldn’t help him if he wanted to.  He was here to witness, and Maynard knew that.
“It’s a David Stone.  The Trolls don’t like’m.  Don’t know why, but if he comes after you, you show that to him.”
Stacey picked the stone from the snow, rubbing its cold face with his thumb.  Maynard left him to his observations and walked on to the back side of the trailer.
He stood at the corner, looking on into the yard, but saw little evidence of the troll.  The trailer sat on about three acres.  Barbwire separated the yard from the dense thicket beyond.  His eyes panned the scene; two bicycles, an old tire swing, a bath tub and some old refrigerators.  No tracks, no blood. 
“Mudd! I- I see something.”
Maynard turned.  Stacey had his gun out again.

“What is it?”
“The cars over there.  Someone’s inside.”
He was right.  Near the road on the far side of the front yard were four cars, hoods opened, and an arrangement of tools, oil rags, and mutilated carburetors surrounded their hard-bodies corpses.  Inside an old Buick sat the Troll.
“Come on,” said Maynard.  “And for the last time put that thing away.”
Maynard stood at the driver-side door.  He opened it, and like a child lighting a black-cat, stepped away quickly.
“Get on outta that car,” he said. 
The beast looked on, paying no attention to the old-timer.
Maynard held the David Stone between his thumb and index.  “Lookit.  You know what this is? Come on out, boogeyman.”
The Troll turned a grotesque face toward the two men.  His eyes were black as oil and his teeth jutted from the gums in such a tortured manner that his lips split between them.  He stepped out of the car, clawed feet digging trenches into the snow.  He was no taller than Stacey, but nearly three times bulkier.  His entire body was covered in short, grizzly fur.  He eyed Stacey, his breath spewing like ghosts from his thin, blistered lips.
The gun in Stacey’ hand shook wildly.  Maynard half expected to see yellow snow at his feet.
“Don’t look at him,” said Maynard.  “He’s got the stone same as I do.”
The beast lowered his head.  He was trembling, and it wasn’t because of the cold.
“What’d you do to the folks that live here.”
The beast took in several breaths, hollow and deep, before finally speaking.
“I’s sees them.  They’s sees me. They’s bang me with sticks.”
“I didn’t ask what they did to you now did I?”
“I’s takes thems sticks and hits thems back many times.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’s eats the little ones.”
“Yes you did.  I see the hair in your teeth.  Now I don’t recognize you.  What’s your name, boogey?”
“Hogs. My names is Hogs”
“Okay, Hogs.  Well I’m detective Mudd.  This here’s my girlfriend, Stacey.  We work for the Paranormal District and we have an understandin’ with the other boogeys.  You don’t come out and you don’t eat us.”
The Troll showed little sign of understanding.
“Now here’s what’s gonna happen.  You’re gonna come with us for a little while.  We’ll get you squared away with the other boogeys.”
“Hogs no go with other boogeys.  Hogs gobbles up them boogeys.  Hogs gobbles all them boogeys.”
Maynard took little stock in this.  Trolls don’t eat trolls.  It was hogwash.
Maynard held the David Stone in the crease of his palm, and nudged it with the barrel of his 45.
“I don’t want to use this, Hogs.  God knows I don’t.  Now you come along."
The mouth of the troll quivered.  His bulbous eyes snapped together and his head shook violently.
Maynard didn't have time for tantrums.  He raised the 45 and pulled the trigger.  The beast's eyes opened and Hogs stopped his trembling.  He stuttered, stepped a pace, and fell.

Maynard lowered his head.  "Stacey.  Call the dispatcher.  Tell'em to bring on the clean up crew.  Tell'em we got problems."