The Ğräçæĵøĭvőd’ñůý were a race of trolls so nefarious that even their name was an assault, hard enough to write and impossible to say, an umpteen-letter monstrosity that would tie the most eloquent of troll scholars in such knots of quivering failure that they were slain before the first clash of battle had sounded. But the trait of which I’d been most warned during that night’s journey through floorboards and sewers and bridges was their sense of smell, unparalleled in the history of the world. One sniff and they’d forever imprint your scent signature upon their temporal lobes. That was why Ğräçæĵøĭvőd’ñůý, more than any other troll, needed to be completely eradicated in battle. If a single specimen escaped, it would share your odor with others back at its hive, and your home would be overrun in hours.

Ğräçæĵøĭvőd’ñůý were attracted to areas of spoil, and that night we were meeting them upon the soon-to-be battlefield of Keavy’s Junk Emporium. It wasn’t just physical decay that attracted Ğräçæĵøĭvőd’ñůý. They sought out homeless shanties, orphanages, mental hospitals, old folks’ homes, hospice care facilities, anywhere they could snuggle within the invigorating chill of discarded dreams.

Keavy’s was a double whammy: not only was it the most sprawling concentration of decomposition in all of San Bernardino, it also bordered Sunny Smiles for Friends, a budget retirement home of infamous reputation. Ambulances made trips to Sunny Smiles multiple times per night, and it was widely believed to be a front for meth sales. Ğräçæĵøĭvőd’ñůý operated by infecting weak or elderly lungs with airborne poisons and couldn’t be allowed to squat in any one location for long, lest everyone there become polluted.

Blinky completed these warnings as we made our way up the side of a dirt hill at the edge of the junkyard. It was after midnight, and the two of us lagged behind Jack and ARRRGH!!!. Tub was not with us. I had not heard from him since that morning, and as the day dwindled I had resisted calling or texting. He had no business with us. I felt terrible thinking it, but it was bad enough that I was being bullied into attendance.

Blinky and I joined Jack and ARRRGH!!! at the crest of the hill. Before us spread a labyrinth. Compacted vehicles, everything from motorcycles to trailer homes, made up the walls of the treacherous maze, while brambles of metal wire blocked easy exits.

“Behold,” Blinky said, unspooling a tentacle over the vista. “The Ğräçæĵ…the Ğräçæĵøĭv…” He emitted a locust-flutter sound of irritation. If anyone was going to pronounce the unpronounceable, certainly it would be the self-proclaimed greatest living troll historian! But that achievement would have to wait for another day. The tentacle snapped with frustration.

“Behold the rust trolls,” he mumbled.