Evil encroacheth upon our land,
and we shall not abide it.
Evil looms over us,
massive,
unfathomable,
gigantic,
and definitely crossing
our property line.
We have informed
the Dread Lords
who seek to
crush our
freedom
and/or
wreck our
lovely view of the park
that this area
is
not zoned
for Monstrosity,
but they claim
they got a variance,
and City Hall
backs them up.
We protested:
“We do not desire
evil,
not in OUR backyard,”
and the clerk told us,
wearily,
that the hearings had
been publicly posted
and not one
damn
person
showed up.
Evil encroacheth upon our land,
or at least,
we’re pretty sure that one
gigantic and
sinister
oak
has a limb that’s definitely,
definitely more than
halfway between
their house
and ours.
So we did call upon a Soothsayer,
but she was out of town
for a vacation.
So we called unto us
a Surveyor,
who charged a pretty penny,
let me tell you,
and eventually
informed us
that though the limb was out
pretty far
and it would be
neighborly
if they’d trim it,
it wasn’t actually,
technically,
over our property line.
He said we could
build a fence;
he said he
knew a guy.
He said
if it went
over the fence,
we could call the City,
and somebody
would issue them
with a hefty fine,
but that these disputes
are often best settled
between neighbors.
He pointed out that
the ominous Goblin war-drums,
pounding incessantly,
had made it difficult
to concentrate,
so he knocked on Evil’s
dread portal,
and asked them
to turn it down.
So the Orcs,
their war-cries dying down
as word was spread
deep into the Underdark
far below the basement
quit with the drums
and pulled out some violins
and played some very
passable Brahms.
We looked at each other,
and shrugged.
Then Evil
came calling,
came walking down our
driveway,
came up our
stairs,
rang our doorbell,
bringing us gloom
and despair
in a little
covered
basket;
turned out it was
cookies,
fresh-baked,
chocolate chip
with a hint
of brimstone.
Evil encroaches
on our land,
but whenever we’re playing
Ultimate Frisbee,
and the frisbee
sails over into
Evil’s yard,
Evil always laughs
and tosses it back.
Evil says
that spreading death,
doom,
and destruction
is a day job,
but it wanted
to move to
the suburbs
so the Orcs
would grow up
somewhere
green.
The last time
we had
a block party,
the Orcs baked us
some Elves;
the recipe
was kickass,
and everyone
wanted
seconds.
Evil has come
to our neighborhood,
and sometimes
we stop by,
to borrow a cup of
sugar,
or check in about
how soon the Sun
is going to be
swallowed
by that giant
space-shark.
“Soon, soon,”
laughs Evil,
and then
Evil fetches us all
another round of
beers;
their rec room
is great;
you have to watch
out
for the bottomless pit,
but they have a pool table,
and a real
vintage
jukebox;
I think it’s a Wurlitzer.
My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. I also tweet a lot over @darklordjournal.
