Your life is not unworthy

Back in the Planning Office …

Beefy planning man glowered at his former docile assistant. ‘You’re unworthy to work in this office,’ he shouted. ‘A snivelling, fawning, joke of a man. Your parents should never have given you life.’

Simon shrank back, and fell against the Goblin King who waved his sword, threatening Beefy – where had Simon come up with that name for his boss, who was actually called Wayne? His head spun with the events of the morning. Dragons and princesses come to life, Goblin Kings brandishing swords.

‘I’m sorry–‘ he began automatically, and stopped, drew himself up straight. ‘No, I won’t apologise to you.’

‘You mean destroying the plans?’

‘No!’ Beefy shouted again. (Simon liked the new name and decided it would do.) ‘Think of all the hard work we had to do to draw these up and get them approved.’

‘I don’t remember them being approved.’ Simon scratched the fuzz on his chin. It itched, like his beard was growing, real coarse hairs sprouting. ‘In fact, I distinctly remember you talking about getting the machines in in the middle of the night to make a great swathe through the trees before anyone could object.’ He stared at his red-faced former boss.

‘How dare you accuse me of such shenaningans,’ he shouted (again).

‘Not just an accusation.’ Simon took his phone from his shirt pocket and tapped an icon, scrolled up. ‘Yes,’ he said, taking a screen shot. ‘WhatsApp message boasting to me about this as a cunning plan.’

Simon waved the phone under Beefy’s nose and, he couldn’t help it, swaggered a bit. He scratched his prickly beard, tugging at the hair which appeared to be getting longer.

‘Into the cupboard with you, you villain.’ The Goblin King eased the sword tip more firmly into Beefy’s paunch. ‘Go on, go on.’

‘Better do what he says.’ Simon opened the store room door. ‘I think my new friend means business.’

‘He wouldn’t dare,’ Beefy shouted. ‘Hey!’ He stepped back hastily when the sword ripped through his shirt buttons, leaving the white flab of his tummy flopped over his waistband.

Beefy appeared to decide this was a fight he would have to win another day. He backed into the store room, and Simon banged the door shut and locked it, pocketing the key.

‘He’ll be fine,’ he said, mostly to himself because the Goblin King was already tearing through the plans with his sword. ‘He has his secret bottle of whiskey in there. That’ll keep him company.’

The Goblin King had made short work of the plans. Now, panting a little from his efforts (and, Simon suspected, excitement), he turned to Simon.

‘Come on, Sir Simon,’ he cried. ‘Time for us to rendezvous with the princesses and their army. Follow me!’

Sir Simon? Princesses? Simon cast one last look around the office where his life had indeed been unworthy, and followed the Goblin King, tugging at his ever-lengthening beard.

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Find Cheryl’s flash fiction and short stories, including audio versions of some, here!