Sue Vincent’s prompt this week is
Worple the Cantankerous was, for many years, a fringe gremlin, tolerated but not taken seriously by the elite troublemakers of his breed. His ideas, based around simple old-fashioned biting and scratching, were deemed outmoded in the new digital, orthodontic-led mastications that modern mischief makers thought relevant to a globalized community that thrived on gratuitous irritations via social media. ‘It doesn’t have to bleed to make the pain real’ had been Dweeble the Oblique’s winning motto and with his shiny neat dentures and moisturized scales he appeared to be the epitome of what an over anxious, over tired, over rated world wanted from their annoying little monsters.
Then came the crash, the new reality and a call from a more traditional gremlinisation of society. In an effort to appear fair Dweeble, now confined to pissing off the redundant elite with sanctimonious bleatings about how it wasn’t his fault, and his supporters proposed an election for a new Supreme Gremlin; and someone had the even better idea to suggest, purely for balance of course, that one of the old school be included in the scratch-off.
Worple didn’t have a hope but all the trolls and curmudgeons and snot-nosed creepozoids who peopled the airwaves behind anonymous hashtags and gravatars spumed such a torrent of vile vitriol that he carried the day.
Amazed, Worple prepared for his elevation to the Leader’s Dung Heap. His supporters carried him aloft, ready for the formal tossing into the Pit of Misery. But they’d failed to factor in Dweeble’s remaining support, gremlins who had stayed in positions of responsibility; like Unctuous the Uncool, in change of random door slamming and all things finger-pinching.
As Worple’s gnarled and wrinkled form was hurled towards the Pit, Unctuous shouldered the largest, hardest, most unpleasant door he could find to block Worple’s path.
The reporters and camera crews, filming the ceremony had hoped for something spectacular but the image that graced the next morning’s papers, of Worple, his head protruding though the ancient door and his once fine canines replaced by a ring of steel exceeded even those rapacious bastards’ expectations. As one bystander said with mischievous glee ‘We’re all Gremlins now’.