or a perfumist—this was something much worse. From that same deep-down place, Hobgoblin got the feeling this had something to do with the situation in Rancidia.
As Hobgoblin watched the forest through his window, a disturbing vision flashed through his mind. He imagined a huge, menacing ogre lurking in the shadowy depths of the forest. A shiver skit-tered across his neck. For the first time in a very long while, Hobgoblin wished his door had a lock.
Later that night, Hobgoblin got ready for bed by rubbing his face with mud and rinsing his mouth
24
with sludge. Once he felt suitably soiled for sleep, he sat down on the soft mound of muck that he used for a bed. The flies sat on top of his head with their eyes closed and their hands clasped before them.
Candlelight gently danced across their faces. Hobgoblin grasped the corked vial he wore around his neck. Inside was a little normal-looking bean. He kissed the vial, closed his eyes, and interlaced his fingers. He then recited an ancient hobgoblin prayer.
“Dear Pre-Bean,” he said. “You’re the first bean ever harvested by a hobgoblin in the Mucklands. You are the source of our pride, our livelihood, and our wonderful, hilarious farts. For that, we thank you.”
The flies nodded in quiet agreement.
Eyes still closed, Hobgoblin let loose a respectful, ceremonial fart. The flies applauded in an adorable, barely audible sort of way.
Hobgoblin yawned, and the flies nestled onto his
26
pillow—a burlap sack stuffed with dried beans. He patted each of them on the head in turn and said, “Nighty night, little guys.”
Before he lay down for the night, Hobgoblin walked across the room to the little nook in the wall where a candle faintly burned. He had once powered the electric lights of his mud hut with delightfully nasty-smelling sulfide gas, but the cranky warthog had stopped delivering it several years ago.
Hobgoblin didn’t mind the candlelight so much, having recently overcome a fear of fire. But without sulfide, it was far chillier at night than it used to be. He missed the warm, stinky drafts of gas that used to waft through his hut all night.
He blew out the candle, and the darkness washed over them. Nestling into his muck bed, he covered himself with empty burlap bean sacks.
Hobgoblin smiled as he listened to the gentle breathing of the flies beside his head. The room settled with comfort, calm, and the familiar aroma of bedtime farts.
Minutes later, just as the first snore escaped Hobgoblin’s nose, something slipped into the hut,
27
silent but deadly. The something creeped into the bedroom, struck a match, and ignited a torch. The room blazed with flickering light.
The flies gasped, and Hobgoblin choked on his own saliva. As their eyes adjusted, a masked squirrel took shape, occupying their entire frame of vision. In one paw she held the fiery torch, in the other she held a scrub brush. It was aimed directly at Hobgoblin.
28
CHAPTER 3
THE OGRE’S ASSASSIN
obgoblin’s scream was backed by six squeaky shrieks from his flies.
The squirrel poked the scrub brush into Hobgoblin’s nose. “Do exactly as I say, Hobgoblin,” she said. “Or I’ll scrub you so hard, your flies won’t recognize your scent.”
Hobgoblin gulped. A shrill stress fart escaped under his burlap covers.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
The flies nodded earnestly, ready for their orders.
29
“Get up,” said the squirrel. “We’re going into the Fetid Forest, where there are no witnesses. Dress appropriately.”
Hobgoblin’s tiny eyes darted nervously from the crossbow and arrow-filled quiver slung around the squirrel’s shoulder to the pouch hanging on her back stuffed with who knows what cleaning products.
His eyes bulged a little when he noticed Fiddlefart’s royal badge pinned to her cloak—a stinky, rotten corpse flower. He tried to gulp again, but his throat felt like a sock crammed with sawdust, so he ended up with a crooked frown.
The flies buzzed in nervous loops above Hobgoblin’s sweat-soaked head. Without taking his eyes off the squirrel, Hobgoblin grabbed a cloak from his coat rack and, fingers trembling, fastened it around his neck.
The squirrel blew out her torch to steep the hut in darkness once again. Hobgoblin felt the scrub brush jab into his back.
“OK,” said the squirrel in her raspy, no-nonsense voice. “Now, march.”
Hobgoblin marched stiffly toward the door like a toy soldier.
30
“Hey, knock it off! You don’t have to march like that,” said the squirrel.
“Oh, sorry…” said Hobgoblin uncertainly. They left his mud hut and headed for the forest. Not sure how to march correctly, Hobgoblin took deep knee bends with his elbows fixed at right angles.
“Stop it!” said the squirrel, jabbing him in the back.
“I don’t know how to march!” wailed Hobgoblin, afraid she was going to scrub him at any moment.
The squirrel stopped and let out an irritated groan. Gesturing with the scrub brush, she explained: “You don’t have to march march. It’s a figure of speech. Just walk normally into the forest and head northeast. I’ll direct you where to go.”
31
“Just walk normal,” said Hobgoblin. “Got it.”
After a few hesitant head bobs and practice steps, he remembered how to walk normally (at least nor-mally for him) and headed for the green, blue, and purple trees of the Fetid Forest.
Under usual circumstances and during the day, Hobgoblin loved the Fetid Forest and its bounty of rotten, moldy, and sticky smells. However, his feel-ings were quite different at nighttime with a scary squirrel poking a scrub brush into his back.
The forest was completely dark and very noisy. Hobgoblin and his flies had no idea what was out there spattering the murky air with chirps,
