that happen.”
“I don’t understand,” said Hobgoblin. “The Mucklands aren’t even part of Rancidia. All I do is fart around my farm and mind my own business. I’ve ignored this ogre stuff so the flies and I could stay out of it.”
“Even though Fiddlefart is bringing the battle to you, the truth is, you’ve always been involved,” said the Huntress. “You may not be a Rancidian, but Fiddlefart’s cruelty is your business. Anytime a creature is treated unjustly—no matter who they are or where they’re from—it’s everyone’s business.”
Hobgoblin rubbed his temples. This was a lot to take in. “A warthog has told me stories of Fiddlefart.
40
I tried to convince myself he was making it up. Even when he stopped delivering gas, I pretended it had nothing to do with the ogre king…”
Hobgoblin trailed off. The Huntress kept her masked eyes fixed firmly on him. Hobgoblin looked away. Then, with a wince, he asked: “Is it really that bad in Rancidia?”
“Yes, Hobgoblin,” she said. “Everything you’ve heard is true. Fiddlefart has destroyed a beauti-ful democracy. That reality doesn’t change, even when you stick your head in the muck and ignore it. Wishing it isn’t real doesn’t make it go away—it just means you’ll be next on his scrub list. And guess what? You’re next.”
“But I’m just a bean farmer,” Hobgoblin
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