Day 996

Dear Diary,

It seems I have negotiated a good deal with the gnomes. The back yard is looking great and Gargelson has promised I can ride my motorcycle every other weekend and on all of the winter holidays. He even offered to give me a tour of my back yard.

Wait, what? A tour of my back yard?

Hold on, I better go check on what that shiesty gnome is up to!

[Brief journal interlude; feel free to listen to your favorite album ‘til I get back]

Sorry about that, it took longer than I expected. Given I can see my entire backyard from my office window, I did not expect a tour to take all afternoon, or even be necessary for that matter.

But, well, gnomes.

Crikeys, I need tequila for this journal entry.

[Brief journal interlude]

 

Wait, what, why is my liquor cabinet empty? 

Friggimanati golflankerty bit GNOMES!

 

[Fade to my backyard…] 

[Since this is a low budget journal, you’ll have to rely on your imagination for fading effects; play your favorite album to add sound effects.]

While waiting for my tour I heard an engine revving on the other side of my fence line, then a loud crashing sound as the gnomes backed my truck through (well, over) the gate and into the backyard. In the truck bed sat my Harley suspended by some sort of two-by-four A-frame contraption that balanced precariously on the edge of the lowered tailgate. The bike’s rear tire had been removed and wound around the rim was a coil of old, frayed rope. Tied to the end of the rope was a battered five gallon bucket suspended from a pulley that hung from the contraption’s apex.

“What the…” my thoughts trailed off, incapable of finding any logical thing that could possibly follow that particular ‘what’. 

My truck’s engine howled it careened backwards through the yard at a frighteningly high speed, the A-frame and my Harley bounced and swayed precipitously, threatening to teeter right out of the truck’s bed. Eventually the truck slid to a stop, the bucket swung chaotically over a smallish, five gallon bucket sized hole in the ground.

“Ken, mah boy!” Gargelson exclaimed from his perch on my Harley’s seat where he’d been guiding the truck’s trajectory through the yard. “Why yeh weeping?” he asked.

“I am not weeping!” I replied curtly, unable to avert my eyes from the travesty that once was my beautiful bike, “It’s a fleck of dust. Allergies…a drop of sweat…” I explain and quickly wipe away the bead of dust that had been streaming down my cheek.

“Have yeh come fer yer tour?” Gargelson asked. Without waiting for a response, he continued, “Hop in,” and gestured toward the five gallon bucket.

I stared at the death trap that still swung from the sketchy truck bed contraption, blinked a couple times wondering what sort of demise the old gnome had in store for me. Gargelson gestured again, grabbed the rope and shook the bucket in my general direction. 

“Don’t be a sissy boy.” Gargelson shouted encouragingly, shaking the bucket again for emphasis.

Being no sissy boy whatsoever, I climbed into the bucket, which suddenly jerked from Gargelson’s grasp and swung out until the bucket was nearly even with the top of the gnome-traption. With great agility I fell right out the bucket, hung suspended in air for two and a half seconds then dropped to the ground flat on my back with a huge “OOF!” that expelled all of the air from my lungs and clear into my neighbor Don’s yard. 

“I’m ok,” I wheezed in my most non-sissified voice, picked myself up while brushing imaginary grass off my stomach and legs and waited for my air to return from the neighbor’s yard.

Glaring at Gargleson I yanked the rope away and quite non sissy-like stepped back into the bucket. Gargelson then hopped from his perch onto the rim of the bucket causing the A-frame contraption to groan and shudder. I closed my eyes and braced for impact.

“Fire it up, Smithers!” Gargelson shouted. I opened my eyes back up to see Smithers standing on my bike seat reaching down to fire it up.

“What the…” I started, but before my thoughts could trail off Smithers rolled on the throttle. The rear wheel squealed as it spun into action dropping the bucket right through the hole in the ground. If I were a sissy I probably would have screamed as my stomach was forced up into my throat and we hurtled downward. Instead, I let out a very non-sissy yelp. 

“That’s good Smithers!” Gargelson barked a moment later and on his command the bucket jerked to a sudden stop. We bounced up and down for a moment while my stomach reseated itself into..my stomach. 

“Second Floor, hardware, childrens’ wear, ladies’ lingerie…” Gargelson quipped. “Just kidding mah boy. This is where we store our emergency rations. Or we would, if that friggerfrackin leprechaun would stop drinking them up!”

I glance into the second floor. The walls were lined with shelves all stocked floor to ceiling with bottle after bottle of liquor. Sure enough, Killian O’Nickerson was sitting on a small wooden stool leaned back against one of the shelves drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey. He glanced over, hiccupped and saluted us with his whiskey bottle. 

“You’d think all my whiskey would loosen that one’s lips,” Gargelson muttered under his breath.

“Bring ‘er down, Smithers!” Gargelson shouted.

“Fuuuuu….!” I started to yelp as the bucket again dropped out from under our feet.

I braced myself anticipating another turbulent landing at the next floor. As the bucket bounced to a stop Gargelson hopped onto the floor which appeared to be littered with…my socks. 

“What the…”

Gargelson again interrupted my trailing off. “This is where the magic happens!”  he exclaimed proudly with a grand gesture, gesturing to the third floor.

The room was packed with row after row of tiny gnomes sitting at sewing machines. Each little gnome was wearing a sock, my sock, on their miniature heads, sewing away at more socks. 

“My socks…” I started, then trailed off. 

“We only take the left socks out yer dryer mah boy.” Gargelson explained.

Seeing my blank expression, he further explained his explanation, “Well yeh got two of them in each pair don’tcha? Do yeh really miss the left one?”

I’ve got nothing.

“Well where do yeh think we get gnome hat cloth from?” Gargelson said, as if it made complete sense.

It did not make complete sense, so I changed the subject, “Where did all these tiny gnomes come from?”

“Chignomes.” Gargelson corrected me, and I began regretting changing to that particular subject.

“Chi…?”

“Gnomes.” Gargelson finished my query matter of factly.

“What…where…how…?”Before I could get to “when” and “why”, Gargelson continued explaining.

“Well, we kinda dug hole 13 a bit too deep.”

I didn’t believe it could have gotten even less clear.

He went on, “Hole 13. We dug it all the way through to China, now these Chignomes keep popping right on through. I told Smithers to fill it in, but they are such good gnome hat makers.”

I peer down the hole wondering what more catastrophes could possibly be down there. My curiosity is met with clinking, clanking and whirring sounds that could be heard even over the din of the gnome hat sweatshop.

“That be our wit sharpening shop.”

“Your what…?” Do I want to know?

“Our wit sharpening shop. Do you want to see how we hone our wits to a fine edge?”

Probably not…

Author: Ken Gack

Ken would like you to know that no Harlies were damaged in the making of this journal entry.