The Troll Hunter

I sat in my den, oiling my trusty, blue-steel Parker shotgun, surveying the trophies on my walls. The shells loaded with double aught buckshot were already packed and ready to go.

My name is ML Wens. I'm a professional troll hunter and this is troll season, my favorite time of year. I have stumbled into this job some time back after a town meeting at the Literotica Forum. When it was suggested that someone hunt down and rid our fair community of the critters that had become such a blight, I jumped at the chance.

The nasty vermin had been wreaking havoc on the countryside since the last season but now it was time to pay the price for their heinous ways. I passed the oiled cloth over the dark barrel one more time and licked my lips in anticipation. The thrill of the hunt was already causing my blood to heat. Caressing the custom walnut stock I brought it to my shoulder. What a turn-on it was to pull a member of the species into my sights. I aimed the unloaded gun at one of the stuffed heads on the wall and made a shooting noise. The sound of my reliable shotgun exploding was the last noise any of them ever heard.

I had many trophy specimens on my walls, all of them foul and wicked creatures that plagued our society. None were so foul, however, as the Anonymous Trolls. I looked at their stuffed heads at that moment. There was the Haphazard Troll, known for his butchering of the English language and nonsensical ramblings. A victimized author could spend hours trying to solve the riddle of his garbled words.

There was the Yellow-bellied One-bomb Anon; an elusive creature that was difficult to track. That particular troll attacked without words. The only indication of his voiceless assault was a sharp decline in score numbers.

And there was the Mocking Troll, whose sarcastic dronings could be heard for miles away. At the least his words would elicit exasperated sighs and rolling eyes; at the worst he could raise the vehemence of his victims with his slanderous missives. All did damage to the hard work of the residents of this fair land.

The only one I lacked was the Pea-green Mordacious Troll. This was the most difficult of all Anonymous Trolls, a vile creature as dangerous as he was ugly. He attacked, with vicious jealousy, anyone who dared to have an original thought. His incessant bleating would tear a story to shreds before turning his attention to a personal attack upon the author. Most times his remarks would have nothing to do with the ability of the good citizens or the skill with which a story or poem was crafted. And many times those remarks would be about another story—even written by a different author, as if he had forgotten upon which bit of prose or poetry he had been feasting. In all cases his carping rhetoric left a foul odor that poisoned the air we breathe.

This year I'm going to bag the spiteful Mordacious Troll. I already have a place to hang his head, once I have it stuffed and mounted.

I left the house the next morning and ventured into Literotica Forest. I was dressed in the best camouflage gear I could find. I needed to blend into my environment so I disguised myself as an everyday author, spouting prose and greeting my fellow writers. I was wearing a plain button down and a pair of jeans. Under my shirt I wore my kevlar vest, lest the nasty creature aim his barbed tongue at my heart. In my non-descript book bag I carried a gas mask, to protect against noxious fumes and insulated rubber gloves, to protect myself from the poisonous green slime that was his trademark.

I made my way to my troll blind and climbed up into the seat with my binoculars. I surveyed the land looking for some small sign that my quarry was near. He was a crafty one, this troll. He could blend into the landscape, making you believe he was part of the forest. Some even carried names but all were treacherous. One had to be very careful to catch this fiend.

I heard a small, almost imperceptible cry. All of my senses were instantly on alert as I shifted my gaze in that direction. I saw a poet, hunkered down on the forest floor. I slung my gun over my shoulder and climbed out of my stand. I followed the sound of the poet, surveying each page and phrase as I hiked.

As I drew near I found my first sign: a track made by a seventeen triple E boot. Everyone knows that these repulsive beasts have enormous feet, all the better for stomping on the dreams of the creative. Their tiny, pointed heads and bloated, short bodies slouched over those huge feet as they tromped through the forest.

At long last I found the poet. He perched protectively over his sweet verses, both he and his stanzas were smeared with mephitic green slime. "What happened here, mister?" I asked as if I didn't know.

"It was horrible," said he with quivering chin. He had a fire of righteous indignation in his glittering eyes. "It was a Mordacious. He swooped in, ripped my stanzas to shreds and then attacked me."

I looked at the ground around the disgusting mess. I located his tracks. "Worry not," I told him. "I'm on his trail. I'll have his hide before sundown." I quietly hurried on my way.

The Mordacious had left a nasty trail of huge tracks and muck. He wasn't even concerned with trying to hide his trail, so conceited was he. I vowed that after that day no creative thinker would ever have to worry about his vicious attacks of envy again.

Within the hour I heard an expletive hurled out into the air. I broke into a run, leaping over crushed stories and scattered words. The forest gave way to a small clearing, quite obviously the point of the Mordacious' most recent attack. I saw a woman desperately trying to salvage the pages of her latest creation, swiping at the slime that oozed over the torn paper.

Upon seeing me she called out, "He went that a-way! Get that bastard!"

I hastened to follow the direction of her indication. He was moving faster now. His squat legs pulling at his heavy feet and leaving drag marks through the beautiful sonnets and lively stories. I could hear him crashing through the forest, flatulently spewing his words of hatred and jealously. I was so near I could smell his foul stench. Time to slip on the gas mask.

I heard another scream and knew that another author had fallen prey to his hideous assault. I had to stop him. I knew that only bringing him down would restore harmony to Lit Forest once again and I knew that I would not stop until I had pumped his ass full of buckshot.

I ran past his latest victim who was hemorrhaging sentences. The slime was still steaming. He couldn't be far ahead. Another scream and I switched my course. He had made a fatal error. He had taken Loving Wives trail. I would cut him off at BDSM creek. I ran over the top of Interracial Hill and crossed the corner of Group Sex Meadow. Picking up speed I ran through Erotic Couplings Grove. (I stopped there only momentarily to view the scenery. And then I ran onward.)

With a hop and a jump I crossed the stream and took cover in Fetish Thicket. I knew that he would come this way. He just could not resist the temptation of tasty obsession stories. He was mine and I could taste the victory.

Sure enough he rounded the corner of the winding trail with a hungry expression on his egotistical face. He waded into the BDSM, slashing away at the words and phrases that flowed there. I wanted to stop him. He was destroying our world but I knew I had to be patient. Even the slightest sound or movement would send him scurrying back along the LW to disappear into our beloved forest.

Once he was on my side of the now-sputtering stream I drew a bead and stepped out from behind my cover. He saw me and he knew it was too late. Our eyes locked—mine cold and determined, his shocked and dismayed. That was the moment I most cherished. That was the moment when the predator recognized that he had become the prey.

It's fascinating to see first-hand how each troll handles this situation. Some drop to the ground and whimper, trying to evoke sympathy. (I have no sympathy for them.) Some turn tail and run, leaving a cowardly trail of yellow droppings. Still others begin to plead and recant their vicious attacks, with claims of misunderstanding and woe.

But this one opted to fight. I grinned in satisfaction. The excitement of the kill was so much sweeter when they didn't cower. He was a rare find—and an ugly one. I had seen the Pea-green Mordacious before but this was an especially appalling specimen. He stood before me nearly completely nude, his plumage having been stripped away by years of vile and envious hatred.

There was no denying that he was the male of the species by his fetid, filth-encrusted cock that dangled between his stubby legs. And his bulbous belly did little to hide his loose, empty, sack that hung nearly to his over-sized feet. Those over-sized feet were clad in the enormous hiking boots that made their tell-tale sign. I decided that after I had his head stuffed and mounted I would display those boots outside the door of my profile—a warning to all members of the Mordacious family who would dare to tread here.

The troll bared his stained teeth. A cloud of noxious, green gas surged forth from his gaping mouth. I smiled under my gas mask thinking he needed to do better than that. As if reading my thoughts he lashed out with his barbed tongue. It was nearly ten feet long and very fast but I side-stepped it with ease. I waited for his next move, enjoying the game. He struck out again, following his tongue with a frontal assault upon my person.

I squeezed the trigger and watched as he was hurled backward under the force of the blast. His eyes blinked at me in abject surprise. He bled green slime and gurgled snot as his last breath left him. I stared at the revolting little troll with unmeasured disgust and triumph. I had finally bagged a Mordacious. He would look good hanging on my wall.