Dowers sniggered at the three knights crouching in the bushes just past the north edge of his stone bridge. Hee-Hee! He could smell an opportunity for some fun further away than his poor lime tree. That, and he could hear their plans.

Sir Nit whispered, "We wait him out. The troll will look the other way, and we will surprise him. We'll best him with numbers."

Sir Unwi replied, "As you say."

Sir Sany grumbled, "Three will do no good. We should come back with more men."

Nit said, "Three knights is more than enough."

Unwi echoed, "More than enough."

"A troll is twice our size, moves like the wind, and is stronger than ten knights. And they're cruel."

Nit scolded, "You fight under my banner, and we're taking this bridge. A knight doesn't run from battle!"

Unwi added, "No running."

Sany held his tongue.

Finally. Time to begin! Dowers stretched and put his chin to his chest. Let them think I've fallen asleep.

Nit said, "Look! He sleeps! Stand ready."

Unwi said, "Ready!"

Sany grumbled, "It's a trick. We should withdraw."

"Now!" Nit shouted. "Have at him!"

Nit's armor pounded across the stone bridge, Unwi's close behind. Sany's sounded with much less enthusiasm.

Nit leapt off the bridge, straight for Dowers. Without so much as a look, Dowers punched the charging knight in the chest, propelling him back like a shot into the side of the bridge. Dowers was especially proud of the sound Nit's bones made when they struck the stone.

So satisfying!

Unwi bellowed his war cry and leapt off the bridge toward Dowers, too. Dowers dodged to the side, letting Unwi land flat-faced on the ground. Dowers placed a foot on his back, pinning him down.

Unwi struggled, unable to breathe with the troll's weight on him.

Dowers gestured to Sany on the bridge. "Come on, to me! Slay me, knight! I am your enemy!"

Sany stared at him. "The creek is not deeper than my knees. I need not use your bridge."

Sany ran.

Dowers frowned. Knights have to fight.

Dowers crushed Unwi's skull and dashed after Sany. In no time, Dowers tackled him. Sany was no match for Dower's strength.

Pulling Sany's limbs from his torso, Dowers grumbled, "Running from a fight. Shameless!"

Dowers walked back to his bridge and dropped the pieces of Sany around the base of a tree that grew near the stream's edge. It was a stunted, misshapen thing, it's branches sparsely strewn with half-blackened, rotting fruit. Dowers looked at it and sniffled.

"My sweet Persian lime," he told it, "why will you not grow tall? Why does your fruit wither and stay bitter rather than ripen with delicious sour? Why? Need you more fertilizer?"

Dowers dragged Nit's body over and tore it to bits, carefully spreading it amongst the many other bones at the tree's base. He caressed the trunk with love. "Grow of him, my lovely." His meat would be bruised anyway.

Dowers smiled at Unwi's body. "This is the one for roasting!"

Gnawing on a meaty thigh, Dowers was surprised by the soft sound of leather on stone. Looking up to the bridge, he saw a tall human dressed in dull, ill-fitting clothes.

Ugh! A peasant! He carried something in a sack over his shoulder.

Dowers' guttural growl froze the man in place.

"Merciful heavens!" the man shouted. "A troll!"

The man dropped his sack and ran. Dowers started to pursue him, but stopped short. He could smell something. Something familiar. Something he couldn't quite place. He sniffed toward the sack. The smell was definitely coming from there.

With a claw, he slit the sack. A green fruit rolled out onto the surface of the bridge.

A lime! A good, fresh lime! I haven't smelled one in so long! Dowers dove on it, gobbling it up. He paused for a moment in exquisite ecstasy, quivering with the joy of it. Imagine! A whole bag of limes!

He looked down at his own shrunken tree and paused. Guilt filled him inside. "My lovely, I have forsaken you. I am not worthy of you."

Without so much as looking inside, he tossed the sack onto the fire. Barely a moment later, flames roared up, burning the fabric. In the inferno, he saw more fruit sizzling, a pair of garden tools, and a small seedling. It's roots were tied into a small fabric ball, which burned fast.

"A lime tree!" Dowers dove upon the fire, snatching out the scorched sapling. He doused it in the creek.

No leaf remained. The thin trunk snapped in his hands. A pitiful tangle of muddy roots hung below. It looks sad, as if it will never know joy.

"That man!" Dowers realized. "He must grow limes!"

Dowers set the tree down carefully, and set off after the gardener.

Dowers tied a strip of the gardener's shirt around the broken pieces of the blackened trunk. Carefully, he pushed earth around the new tree's base, gently tapping the ground flat. He set the man's head in front of his new prize.

"See, my lovelies, all you needed was a gardener to help you grow. Now, you may bear your fruit."

As if in response, a single rotten lime fell from the older tree.

"No," Dowers moaned. "Be you good now. You have a companion. You need not be lonely. The roots were safe in earth and did not burn. The gardener will see to her needs, just as my gift of knights will for you. You may thrive. You may grow."

The blackened, broken trunk of the new lime tipped over.

Dowers frowned. Perhaps it needs a knight instead of a peasant, and then it will be happy. Then it will grow.

Dowers sat on a stump to wait for another victim to try and cross his bridge, no matter how long it took.

I love my trees. I keep them well.

FrequentlyIncorrect: Star Wars is a particularly interesting example. The original trilogy is Luke's story,

FrequentlyIncorrect: but when you combine it with the prequels the focus shifts, quite neatly, onto Darth Vader.

TheSaurus: No, Vader is only a background character in the second trilogy; the first doesn't change that.

- lonelyblonde logged in

lonelyblonde: lol hey wh4tsup

FrequentlyIncorrect: I beg to differ. Parts four and five show the scope of his descent into the dark,

lonelyblonde: wht u t4lking b0ut?

TheSaurus: The subject of conversation is Star Wars. I recommend you find yourself a dictionary.

FrequentlyIncorrect: while part six shows his eventual redemption, completing the story of his life; the end to match the biginning shown in the prequels.

lonelyblonde: lol prequels d1dnt h4pp3n n00b.

TheSaurus: Can we get an administrator in here? We appear to have picked up a troll.

lonelyblonde: 4n|> H4n 5h0t f1rst

lonelyblonde: ha n0 adm1n w|11 g37 rid 0f m3.

FrequentlyIncorrect: One who talks in cryptograms, no less, presumably because his feeble intellect cannot manage to survive the English language.

lonelyblonde: 1'|| b00t u off n00bs. 1 is 1337 haxor.

lonelyblonde: Wh4t'5 ur IP addre55?

TheSaurus: Do you know how to get hold of the admins?

FrequentlyIncorrect: Not if you have to ask for IP addresses, you're not.

lonelyblonde: I g0t scr1pts that'|| 3v3n take macs 0ffl1ne.

FrequentlyIncorrect: I think they're mostly in Europe. It's the middle of the night there now.

lonelyblonde: g1ve m3 ur IP.

TheSaurus: You can't be serious.

FrequentlyIncorrect: My IP is 127.0.0.1. You couldn't kick me off a rolling log.

lonelyblonde: 1'm k1ck1ng u 0ff n0w, n00b.

- lonelyblonde logged out

FrequentlyIncorrect: There we go. Now, as I was saying,

TheSaurus: What just happened there?

FrequentlyIncorrect: parts four and five show the extent of Vader's descent into the dark miasma that he began to sink into in part 2

- lonelyblonde logged in

lonelyblonde: WHAT THE #$%# MAN?

FrequentlyIncorrect: while part six shows his eventual redemption from that dark place,

lonelyblonde: UR G01NG D0WN N0W!!!11!!11oneone!!eleventyone1111!!!

- lonelyblonde logged out

TheSaurus: What did you do to him?

FrequentlyIncorrect: Oh, I gave him the loopback address. Whatever he intended to attack me with is hitting his own computer.

- lonelyblonde logged in

lonelyblonde: U HAXX0RED MY BOX!I K1LL UR ACC0UNT!

- lonelyblonde logged out

TheSaurus: So it's like he's fighting himself in a mirror?

FrequentlyIncorrect: Kind of. I just hope he gets tired of it soon. In the meantime, best to just ignore him.

- lonelyblonde logged in

lonelyblonde: N0W 1'M #$%#1NG 4NGRY!

lonelyblonde: TH15 0N3 W0N'7 JU57 K1LL UR B0X3N

lonelyblonde: 17 W1P35 UR 3NT1R3 H4RD DR1VE!!!11!!1oneone!!!!one!!eleventyone!!!!

FrequentlyIncorrect: As I was saying, part six shows his redemption,

lonelyblonde: D13!!!!one!!eleven!!!!oneoneone!!!111!!1

- lonelyblonde logged out

FrequentlyIncorrect: his eventual climb out of that dark place. And look at how much that final confrontation in front of the Emporer echoes Vader's own fall.

TheSaurus: I'm just surprised that he didn't type out his swearwords.

FrequentlyIncorrect: It's the new apprentice fighting the old in front of the throne of the Sith lord - start of episode 3.

FrequentlyIncorrect: Oh, that's probably being automatically filtered out.

FrequentlyIncorrect: It's the Jedi betrayed by the Sith, fearful of losing those nearest ad dearest to him; Luke and Leia, episode six, echo Anakin and Padme, episode three.

TheSaurus: Do you think he's gone?

FrequentlyIncorrect: Who? Vader?

TheSaurus: No, lonelyblonde.

FrequentlyIncorrect: Hopefully. Forget about him.

FrequentlyIncorrect: It is also, interestingly, the Sith apprentice betrayed by the Sith master again; Palpatine and Dooku, episode three, are echoed by Palpatine and Vader, episode six.

FrequentlyIncorrect: And Vader is redeemed when he saves Luke, much like he fell when he tried too hard to save Padme.

Gorpin was a bent little man with a deep, tormented soul. Within sight of salvation, he always wound up cold and alone. Even tormented beings need to eat. He ran a troll-booth by the Great River leading to town and charged 10% of the transported supplies. Ach, yes, the travel-folk tried to oust him, but that led to greater casualties than simply agreeing to his terms. With his livelihood under threat, the woeful figure sacrificed more of his already depleted stock of grace for inspiration in defense. On one occasion he smeared the wagons with insect-egg laden mud. Sulking with grudging wariness, the equilibrium was established.

Months later, a discussion developed in the castle strategy room. The royal scout was concluding his presentation.

"Sire, the Warlord of the adjacent realm, Northguard, is staging another attack. We have good armies as you know. (Thank you, Master of Arms.) But we need a final resource to seal the defense, or some bad luck risks unraveling our plans to threaten total ruin. I submit the topic to the Advisors."

King: "I tried sending a messenger but he was turned back. The Warlord isn't cruel enough to murder a messenger, but he won't talk."

Knight#4: "Magician, I notice you are looking occupied with something."

The Royal Magician fidgeted as eyes found him. "Sorry. Your Highness, you know much of what I can do. However, performing the King's Magic takes energy. If I must unleash the Furies in this defense, I will not last the fortnight."

A chorus of eyebrows shook in surprise. They all knew the royal mage was meeting Father Time, but hadn't counted upon matters being this tight.

He continued, "My apprentices are not ready… I have this impudent idea… Perhaps there is an undiscovered Living Ley among us, who can add the strength I no longer have to our defenses."

It was a fine suggestion, and the King decreed it so. The Magician embarked upon his search. The flame flickered only minutely, too little to be of help. Then he came to the bridge. In that moment, the flame exulted in the barest instant of triumph. Then a door slammed and the flame snuffed completely, which had not occurred in any of the other tests. The Ugly Daughter reported back her findings.

The magician mused, "My Robe, can it be so? It would explain the stories, yes? That bothersome fellow has withstood all attempts to oust him from his lair, sometimes in the most fantastic circumstances. That would be like a Darkness incantation, but it is still Ley. Maybe this is his Time."

The Queen's own maid bathed the timid Living Ley, cut and oiled his hair, fed him thoroughly from castle stores, and gave him a towering glass of mead. After he was cleansed of years of self-neglect, the small fellow appeared quite presentable. Faced with desperate times, the Magician decided to try a hunch.

"Gorpin, I believe you feel unhappy because you possess what can loosely be termed a "Dark Ley" talent that you have no outlet to express. Too polite to cause us real harm, you take out much of it on yourself and the rest on passerby's by exacting your fee for crossing the bridge. Today, there may finally be a place for you in the kingdom. The enemy Warlord is preparing a battle siege force against us. In times of war, the usual rules of etiquette do not apply. Do your worst, and know that in the service of the kingdom there shall be no consequences. We have sent the perfunctory warning messenger, who has been refused. The Fates are yours to command as you will".

The tormented little man called for the Royal band, for he felt music was the key to his situation. While they were assembling, he paced with his hands clutched fiercely on his head, streaming tears. Gorpin had had nightmares of what he was capable of, and now lives, even enemy ones, would be lost because of him! In the silence enforced by the Royal Magician, he came to terms with his destiny, and prepared for the trial of his life. "Magician, it occurs to me that I may not last this encounter. Know then, that I did what I must for the kingdom". Around that time, the royal band arrived.

The terrible avatar dried his tears, and submitted himself to the wheel of fate. Requesting a cavernous thundering beat on the drums and the thundering base voice of the palace guard, the greatest Dark Ley ever born finally let himself go after a lifetime of desperate restraint. Thunderstorms and Earthquakes pummeled the enemy ramparts. That was only the beginning. At his peak, Dark Gorpin unleashed a reality-bending field that literally stretched the fabric of sanity apart at the seams. Every single member of the Warlord's kingdom suffered an Existential Stroke and died within the day. The Warlord himself simply vanished into a pulverized puff of molecules.

Feebly waving the musicians silent, Dark Gorpin collapsed in a heap of exhausted sorrow, mumbled, "they will trouble you no more", and fell asleep soundly in front of all the royalty of the kingdom. Although he had made too many enemies to become instantly liked overnight, he had no further need of his safety. He was granted a small remote room of his own with food privileges from the castle stores, where he lived most of the time in solitude thereafter.

Scouts confirmed the results. The entire enemy land was stripped of life down past the plants and to most of the buildings. The kingdom annexed the land, and sent word of their conquest as warning to the surrounding lands. Exacting the full measure of detente from their sacrificed tormented mage, the result was a new period of prosperous expansion.

I've got a surprise for the computer hacking, little troll, who has made mischief, inflating the vote totals in the flash challenge I submit stories to every month. The challenge master has been concerned that the integrity of his contest will be discredited by the vote tampering of one individual, who enjoys the havoc he creates much like a dog rolling in his own doodie. Next up, one troll with a slice of bacon, hold the mayo!

I have a friend who is an electronics genius, who has invented a powerful electrical surge feedback device that sends out a strong voltage current to the server of the site that the connected computer is on and relays it to the IP address of the person currently on the site, literally frying him at his computer.

I don't begin to understand how the science of this device works (Did you get that Bob, I DON'T KNOW HOW THE SCIENCE WORKS ON THIS DEVICE). Bob is a good writer and friend of mine, who insists that every fact of science be accurate in any and all stories. I concur, except when the stories are mine!

"So, I fasten this plug into this port, right?" I said to Eugene, as he was finishing up connecting his invention to my computer.

"Right! And when you are sure he's on the site, throw the switch!" he said smiling.

"And then what, he'll be toast?" I inquired.

"Yes! But make absolutely sure you get the right person." Eugene stressed as he headed out the door.

After the door closed it was time to bait the hook.

I surmise, that the dumbass in question must be motivated by emotional responses, seeing that he gets his gratification by causing trouble and then sitting back and enjoying the chaos which ensues. If you tell him not to do something, it's a sure bet he'll do the opposite of what he thinks others want him to do. Rebellion, you know!

So, the title of my story this month will be, "I Dare Anyone To Vote for My Story!" by etc. etc. I expect the vomitus troll to jump all over my story, perceiving it as a dare and immediately begin escalating the votes. I can count on the troll's pride as an ally.

And so, it begins! It's 10 p.m. and the contest has begun and all that I need to do is watch the votes, refreshing the page every minute or so with my hand firmly on the voltage release switch. It's just a matter of time.

What were the lyrics to that song, "Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin' into the future." It seems I've read that somewhere recently.

Well I've been up all night and no movement as of yet. I don't know how cops do surveillance. Hard to stay awake! I need some coffee. I'll refresh the page again and run and make a pot….

I'm back with a large mug of Mocha Joe; ready for the hunt…the troll hunt…hey I'm giddy from lack of sleep.

I'll get him! It's just a matter of time. I'm now singing to myself, "Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin' into…" not that again. Who wrote that song, Wolfman Jack?

It's been 18 hours and no sleep. He's got to make his move sometime. What should I have baited the trap with, moldy cheese? No, the story and title were enough. It was a master baiting job, the way I set him up. Wait a minute; I'm glad no one could hear me say that, cause that would be embarrassing.

It's been two freakin' days and I've nodded off twice, but still, no influx of votes. Let's see, this was about the time he moved last month, or was that the month before last. And while I'm at it, what day is it? Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is? You know, that would make a good title for a song!

It's been six days and he hasn't moved, a total of 8 votes with mine receiving none so far. Well, I guess I scared him off. I suppose, I can take some solace in that! Hurray for me, I scared the little troll off! What do I win?

What was this that I spilled on my shirt? Oh, that's drool. Well, just one more…hey, the votes are moving. There's a vote and wait a minute, another one and…I'm refreshing the page and so there are a total of two votes coming in. What do I do? Oh yeah, throw the switch! Where in the hell is it? Oh, I'm sitting on it! Okay you little twerp…take this!

After waiting for about three minutes, an R.I.P notice was posted stating that my friend Ritchie Torintino died at his computer, probably posted by his wife.

"Look what you made me do you little troll! I'll get you if it's the last thing I do! Take that!" I said as I threw the switch once again.

I'm waiting for a response and it looks like I finally got him. No, I accidentally electrocuted the challenge master.

One more time and I'll get him for sure!

As the light fades, we see our self-appointed hero, turn into an even worse troll than the one he was pursuing, neither of them getting any rest…from then on!

{No trolls were physically harmed during the writing of this story. But 20 writers at Decathelion webzine were electrocuted by mistake.}

Random senseless acts of quiet desperation was the only fame the troll could claim, if only for itself. They were the troll's symbolic fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, the troll could never declare them to the world. If discovered, it would be held to ridicule and persecution.

"Look, the fool got caught," or "IT thought IT was the brightest. What a maroon," would be the taunts and worse.

The conundrum left the troll deeper in despair. It grew even more depressed while simultaneously gleeful at its own technical acumen and successes.

"But what good are success and no recognition?" The troll questioned out loud to its lonesome self. "I'm always in the shadows, never in the limelight."

Lort the Troll brooded about these aspects of life and talents while playing with the wax that had evaporated from the candle flame and rolled it between long slender fingers just above the flames lick.

These issues only compounded the existing life situation for Lort. Even, as a troll, Lort had grossly apparent deformities. Lort was uncommonly handsome and beautiful. And… Lort was a hermaphrodite.

No troll was ever handsome or beautiful, in any sense of the word. Lort was ostracized from his/her fellow trolls for those physical features, alone. Lort's very existence confronted the troll world. Lort represented both the extreme in male/female unobtainum. No troll wanted to view what could have possibly been, had they been born full human. And Lort, handsome and beautiful as he/she is, born of troll parents, is a legitimate member of troll society. Lort could not be ejected but he/she didn't have to be liked or invited to play with other troll like girls and boys.

A lonely, self gratifying existence was to be Lort's life, from puberty on. Who would date him/her? Where do you start?

Lort didn't fit within his/her world. He/she certainly didn't fit in the human world. Lort is a freak, a living conundrum. He/she could go no where on the top world without ridicule and derision. So, Lort remained alone in a self-contained little cell of a mind, and alone in a cell of a room.

His/her computer was Lort's friend, her/his only friend. The anonymity it provided was a comfort blanket. No one knew Lort was a troll on the internet. No one could view his/her sexual bifurcation or be aware of Lorts imposed social schizophrenia. The internet provided that nice safe cover.

But…it was never the real thing.

Lort, alone, said to no one in particular, "Back to the computer."

Lort thought out loud. "Who will be next?"

"Writers and artists," Lort mumbled aloud. "I hate them all."

"Paintings, Beauty that I never see or will caress; writing in a fashion I could never reach." Lort would bemoan to him/herself working into a self gratifying frenzy. These were the objects of desire, causing Lort's distress. They were always out of reach, each bile tasting day.

Lort had no power to harm directly. He/she was a home schooled troll. No troll school would take him/her. Lort, as smart as he/she might be, was missing a full complement of lessons necessary to really be a danger. Those secret lessons were available to the university trained trolls, only. They were the dangerous ones humans feared.

Lort's parents hired the best teachers but none could stand to look at Lort as Lort grew to maturity. That handsome/beauty man/woman stood before them, mocking them. And as Lort came to realize, mocking him/herself too.

Lort's anger/resentment was directed, in an oblique manner, toward the rest of the troll clans. But to attack them was to extract revenge unspeakable. So she/he projected. Lort attacked what he/she could see, what was desirous, was distant and he/she believed in his/her heart, unobtainable.

Lort had a knack for computers. "I don't need much light. The screen provided all I require" Lort would tell others. Lort's keyboarding was lightening fast. Lort's mind just as quick. He/she always had a candle, near by and lit for no reason ever explained.

"A" comes first in the alphabet. Art will be my first target."

Lort found a website that was vulnerable. He/she placed his Trojan horse deep within. He connected all the zombies throughout the planet.

"Let the games begin." Lort smiled in his shadowed cell. She/he ruined many a computer system.

As he/she was about to go through the alphabet Lort stumbled upon another "A "based website and decided to have a little fun there too. The site was protected. So Lort became a fly in the ointment annoying the members, but doing no real damage. For some strange reason Lort felt a kindred spirit with these people as strange as they might be.

It was their strangeness for the different, the weird, and their apparent acceptance of almost anything that attracted him. But-they-were-human. "Humans were to be despised and toyed with," was the troll mantra.

"Humans are monsters never accepting the strange or different," Lort repeated until it became a reality never ever to be questioned.

Hitting the keyboards, Lort, needing very little sleep, continued computer based rampages against unseen innocent victims. Certain governments and agencies attempted to track Lort down. Some wanted Lort stopped. Some wanted Lort.

Lort blessed by good looks was also the recipient of good genes. With that blessing he lived a long empty and lonely life. Lort died very old and alone in a cell of a room. No one ever missed Lort. No one ever really knew Lort. The stench was the only indicator of Lorts demise. Well, that and a reduction in sophisticated computer attacks.

Lort would have been accepted as a full member of the internet society Lort was toying with had he played fair. He/she never realized it. Lort's cancer of self-hate coupled with distrust of everyone and everything blinded Lort to the outreach that was Lort's to grasp. Lort, the ancient troll, would never ever realize that, down to those lonely, self inflicted, self exiled last days.

It's a common day at the Museum of Evolution in Ork Town, Planet Junnnkt.

As usual, our team of Gnoblars- formerly slaves of an Ogree community, then preys to war and now full time workers- is attending upon the housework of the several rooms of the building…

Yezzz, even the Space Orkz had got an evolution…maybe theirs was very different from anything else, but always a sort of an evolution…It has been a looong road from their poor thatched houses in the mud to the factory- towns and their modern ( so to call it…) civilization,and this Museum is meant just to show that every visitor ( if any…), from the first known wars to the modern and more brutal ones…because there have always been wars during Orkz' history…

At that corner you see showcases with ancient pieces of art, weapons, equipment and skulls, while down there you can spot other old pieces of art, weapons, equipment and skulls and here new remains from sites dating since the last century (with pieces of art, weapons, equipment and skulls, too )…well, I don't think that Orkz are really very fond of such "art", they mostly rest on effectiveness of weapons ( you could say the same about Humans, wouldn't you believe?)…other than that, I suppose those remains come mostly from forays on alien worlds, put under glass just as a side ornamentation for swords, maces and – in more recent times- guns…

There are three of us working here: FFFFFFFFFhhhhhhh, it's me, HHHHHHHHHHfffff, my collegue on the right, without his left eye, and HHHHHFFFFFFFffffffhhhhhhhhhhhh, my last crony just in the middle, almost blind on both eyes, so it is easy to recognize at once each of us….Essentialy, we Gnoblars are goblinoids, small in size, big nose, huge ears, and our skin a shade of muffin brownish or rotten greenish ( MINE greenest among my collegues…)…the others say that we don't make good eating, and that saved our lives in the course of wars and depredations,crudely speaking, during most of the days past here around…you could find visible remains of us across the whole Museum, as bags' accessories, shields' decorations, upper leather fittings for modern cockpits, and so on…we had been very popular among those guyz all along so far…

The place we are now in is Grattk's Hall, set just to honour the memory of this Ork Chief, a prominent figure in history, the former leader of the now lost Space Orkz' Refuze Clan that first answered that famous question: "Which came first, the giant- chiken or the giant- egg?" just replying "I don't know, I put in my mouth the giant- chiken first, maybe there was a giant- egg inside it, too!" …well, he was very famous, too, because he was the one starting a war against another clan nearby which went on for almost 20 years …sure, that conflict caused much destruction before Grattk, unexpectedly, one day (but he was very drunk…) ceased it, just because he had forgotten the reason why it all had begun…actually, one of his attendants tried to remind him of it but that was a bad move…that hadn't been a good day for Grattk so far and the unfortunate subservient got a sudden end as the Chief took his mace throwing at his face, pulverizing it completely… the same night no other Ork dared to remind his Chief and so finally the struggle was over…there were happy celebrations and it is told that during those days long gone an Ork artist asked his Chief to pose for the sculpting of his huge statue….that is the same we admire here today, as it has come to us… Grattk is fixed in a proud pose, holding in his left hand his heavy challenge mace, the same he is supposed to have waved that day to silence his impudent attendant…

Well, there is always something to do for us…I mean, removing a spit here, putting in the waste a giant skin scub there, and keeping that brown defec…well, better to drop this subject by now…and today promises to be a looong day of cleaning…so many rooms to pass through…But, wait a moment!

What on earth do I see!!!Greater Ork of Heavenz…!!!

One of my fellows did a big damage…handling the ladder he inadvertently has broken one of the arms of the marble statue of Grattk…WHAT A MESS!!!

The big white forearm was on the floor, all of us gathered around it… Everyone stared at me, and I looked at them, and they looked at me, dubious, in return…….and so,upset and just unable to think of something else, I told them "Just Glue it!!!"

Then, my collegues began crying out…because there was a self evident truth awaiting for us…as soon as the Museum management had seen himself that disaster, we would have been cannon fodder for the ancient gun announcing the next dawn on top of the Old Tower tomorrow morning…

Deep inside Ork Town's dark prisons , the nasty Troll had been in chains for longer than he could even remember… Sometimes, the Orkz tied him to the bronze clapper of the biggest bell of t he oldest tower, and had him "rung" against the inside of the bell waist for forty times to announce the people an execution soon had to be held…anyway, his hard skin let him undergo that process without taking too much harm, but anyway it wasn't good and then a little humiliating…for a Troll as he was…

This time he would have been "rung" for some little Gnoblars that had damaged a statue…well, he still remembered the taste of those goblinoids he commonly ate as an exquisite snack when going still free, so even now one thing conforted him..if he was no longer able to feed on them, this time– at least- he would have been the instrument announcing their execution!

So, when the Ork population had heard the sound of the bell, everyone probably would have started wondering… "For Whom the Bell Trolls today…?"

Simon Labree entered the High Museum of Art in Atlanta by walking through the southeastern wall. In his hand he carried a small device of his own invention called the Quantum Coherence Disrupter. By essentially causing a man-sized group of atoms to doubt their true phase , Simon was able to pass through them while they tried to decide if they should exist here or somewhere else along a fourth dimensional continuum.

That was the easy part. Choosing what pieces to steal was much more difficult.

The National Gallery of Art's exhibit, which some wag had decided to call, Vagabond Masters since it was a traveling show, had arrived a week before. Since then Simon had devoted at least three hours a day, every day, to touring the great works. He spent that time in near rapture, devouring the breathtaking collection, choosing out the two he would take, and pacing off the route to his prizes.

The silent alarm tripped the moment he stepped inside, and cameras were surely following his progress. Time was short.

Simon chose a Bellini and a Titan – the master and the pupil who would surpass him – showcased together in one display. His hands shook when he took them down, for he was touching greatness.

Escape was easier than the crime itself. Simon passed through several closed businesses to enter his ground floor room in a bed and breakfast three blocks away. No one saw him leave. No one saw him return.

The next day Simon went home to his low-rent apartment in Macon. He refused to even look at the paintings for a month while he watched the world's reaction to his high profile theft. The art world was agog. Theories abounded, but none of them involved a part-time inventor and full-time small engine mechanic living in Macon, Georgia.

When the time was right, Simon pulled the Bellini from a dark corner far back in his bedroom closet, unwrapped the linen he had bound it in, and stood it on an easel in his tiny living room. He locked all the doors, shut off the phone, and blocked up the windows with cardboard – a shame really, the Bellini deserved natural light, but he couldn't risk discovery. Using floodlights he lit the beautiful scene of The Madonna with Child, and then stood before his own blank canvas, brush in hand.

He worked seven hours without break, only running to the toilet when his need was too great to ignore. He did not eat. He did not drink. He painted.

By hour five Simon had begun to despair. His colors were more than a match for the great Italian – modern paints were better in almost every way – but color was not what he lacked, and he knew it.

Simon lacked skill. Not just skill – innate skill. In nearly thirty years of practice ha had learned everything a man might glean from applying paint to canvas. But what he could never teach himself, nor even garner from a great master, was true talent. His every brushstroke seemed misplaced. His very approach to the canvas ran at right angles to the masterpiece he sought so hard to reproduce.

Simon's painting was good. It might even have fooled a lay observer. But it was no Bellini.

"Bastard!" he cried at last, throwing his colors across the room. He began pacing, and switched on the television to block out his self-loathing, his talentless rambling thoughts, and his jealous rage.

A woman was speaking on CNN. The caption below her name read: Special Collections Curator, National Gallery of Art.

"…theft has left the owners at a financial loss, but worse it has deprived the world of the chance to appreciate masterworks that are truly one of a kind."

A red fugue as akin to anger as a firecracker is to a nuclear bomb descended over Simon Labree. It blotted out all sight, all sound, all conscious thought. It caught him up like a toothpick in a whirlwind.

Simon found himself standing before the Bellini with no memory of arriving there, and even less of squeezing a tube of rouge red across the top of the painting, smearing it, blotting out the Madonna and the Child with his large, callused hands – the hands of a mechanic, a common laborer, not the fine, delicate tools of an artist.

When he realized the import of what he had done, Simon backed away in horror. He had meant to return them – paint them and return them. Not this. He had never intended this.

Simon stood that way, staring for long minutes at the ruin he had created, willing it to be undone. But it could not be undone.

Had he actually thought to copy Bellini? The shear audacity of turning his hand to that iconoclast's work now soured Simon's stomach.

By dint of will he forced his gaze back to the masterpiece his jealousy had destroyed. Exquisite fragments of the original work shone through between the irregular swirls and splotches of red, as if the Italian master's genius could, marred as it was, still outmatch even Simon's egregious attack.

Where Bellini had touched the canvas: rapture.

Where Simon had touched it: ruin.

Simon wept, not for the prison sentence which surely lay ahead of him, nor even for the loss of this great piece of art – it was tragic, what he had done, but there were many other masterworks in the world. Simon wept instead for the realization that he would never, in his miserable life, produce anything so vivid, so inspiring, or so beautiful as that which he had destroyed.