Borf, The Vindictive Troll by Lavern Spencer McCarthy

A large tree in the middle of green woodland. Large white text reads: Borf, The Vindictive Troll. Smaller text reads: Discussing disabled characters in fairy tales and folklore.

Trolls have been around since the world began. The trolls of America, coming from a foreign country, gravitated to bridges, being naturally inclined to do so. Back in the day there was a troll that lived beneath every bridge, but soon there were too many trolls and not enough bridges. Many trolls left America and returned to their homelands where they and their relatives likely still live and prosper.
 
One troll family that stayed in America was the Borf family. They strong-armed other, weaker trolls to turn over their bridges. The other trolls were resentful, of course, but they could do little when their enemies came at them with sharp teeth and nails. As time passed, more trolls left the country until all the bridges in America belonged to the Borfs.
 
The Borf family had only two names. The males were named Borf and the females, Borfetta. There was one troll they called Borfamanaic because he was the worst troll who ever lived, but that is a story for another time.                                  
Borf was a troll who loved to stir up trouble. As trolls go, he wasn't the worst, but he was certainly full of beans. Of all the trolls in existence, he was likely the grumpiest, especially in the morning before he had his first, hot cup of beet juice. His wife, Borfetta, had run off with a circus worker. She took all the hard-earned jewels and money they had. Once in a while she sent him a post card from a faraway place where he was certain she was living it up on his wealth. Thankfully, they had no children to fight over.
 
Borf owned a bridge that spanned the River Clementine, in the country. His bridge was fairly sturdy but not the best. He lived beneath it in a hut made of twigs and whatever else he could find to keep his hairy body out of the weather. He fished a lot, not only for a fresh supply of meat, but because he hated spending any more than he had to.
 
However, he had used some of the cash he had taken from others, for a few pots and dishes to make his life more comfortable. He owned a battery-operated radio that kept him informed about world happenings. He had purchased a soft bed that brought him much comfort.                                                                                                   
When he drove his Borfmobile into the nearest town to purchase what supplies he needed, he was stared at and mocked regarding his strange appearance. One time a town bully came at him, and Borf bit the fellow's nose off. He went to jail for that and had to pay a hefty fine. Fortunately, he had enough dough with him to pay his way out.  Borf was a greedy troll. He had steadfastly rebuilt his stash of jewelry, cash and other items of value.                                                                                                            
 
He had excellent ears and could hear the approach of vehicles from miles away. Borf's specialty was scaring little old ladies out of their possessions when they traveled to the country to pick berries or visit other little old ladies. There were clumps of bushes at each end of the bridge where Borf could lie in wait and jump out in front of vehicles to make them stop. He loved to demand money for the use of his bridge.
 
If it was not forthcoming, he would climb on top of cars and jump up and down, or damage hoods until the victims became scared enough to give him what he demanded. Borf was very heavy. He wore a pair of hob-nail boots and could damage vehicles with the best of them. However, he had to be careful just in case said little old ladies had a hulking son with them or a gun. In one incident he was happily stomping on a Cadillac and turned to see a shotgun aimed at his head. She shot through the windshield, with shotgun pellets flying everywhere. Borf wasted no time in running for his life. He hurried home and locked the door, fearful that the gun owner was about to show up and blow him away. For once, he forgot to be gripey, downing a whole bottle of vodka before he poured himself into bed.
 
One day when Borf was taking a nap in his hut, he heard a vibrating, rumbling sound. At first, he thought it was a tornado. He had survived a few of those and had no use for the destruction they caused. After listening for a few seconds, he decided it was coming up the road.  He hastily put on his boots and went outside. Hiding in the bushes he soon saw what it was--a giant eighteen-wheeled truck.
 
It thundered toward the bridge, showing no indication of slowing. Borf jumped in front of it, wildly waving his arms and screeching for it to halt. He was forced to scramble out of the way as the vehicle flew past. It roared across the bridge and disappeared in a whirl of dust.
 
Half of the bridge was in the river. The other half looked as though it, too, would soon fall. His hut was flattened. Borf was mortified. His poor bridge and his hut! They were ruined forever. He began to seethe with anger. Whoever did this should have known the weight limits of the bridge. Borf stomped around and grumbled for several hours. All that hard work to make such a mansion as he had owned was in vain.  He realized he should have purchased a homeowner's policy when that traveling insurance salesman knocked on his door. He had told the man to get off his property.
 
The next day Borf set out to find the culprit who had ruined his life. After he had worked himself into a rage over the situation, he pulled his Borfmobile from the bushes, checked the oil and drove in the direction the trucker had taken. He found the truck about ten miles up the road, parked next to a rundown trailer. Borf wanted to confront the man at once, but when he stepped into the overgrown yard, about seventeen dogs emerged from beneath the trailer and began to howl and chase him. They caused Borf to run for the Borfmobile as fast as his stumpy legs could carry him.
 
As he sat panting, Borf saw a man standing in the trailer doorway. The man was beefy, red-faced and had tobacco spit running down each side of his chin. He wore a dirty t-shirt and boxer shorts. He was extremely drunk. He glared at Borf.
 
"Whadda ya want?" he slurred. Borf eyed the dogs prowling the yard.
 
"Call off your mutts!" he demanded. The man's bleary eyes partly focused on the dogs.
 
"These dogs won't hurt you if I'm here," replied. He made a dismissive motion with one hand.
 
"Go on, Queenie, Suzy and Jack, and the rest of you sweethearts." One by one the dogs skulked beneath the trailer. The man invited Borf inside. Borf warily ascended the rickety steps. Once he was inside, the man closed the door. He turned to face Borf.
 
"My, you are a funny looking dude," he told Borf, with a smirk. Indignant, Borf stretched himself to his full 4 feet height.
 
"That's because I am a troll," snarled. "Who are you?"
 
"My name is Gus, the man told him. "What can I do for you?"
 
"You broke my bridge!" Borf stated. "I want money to have it repaired." Gus gaped at him, incredulously.
 
"Your bridge? Since when does anyone own a bridge? I thought all bridges were owned by the state, the city or the county."

"Not this bridge," Borf assured him. "This bridge was willed to me by my late grandfather." Gus burped once, then took a big swallow of his beer. He gazed at Borf, smirking.
 
"I had to take a detour because the bridge I usually use was out. I had to use your bridge to get home."
 
"Well, you broke it, and I demand that you give me enough money to have it fixed!"
 
"Look here, you dim-witted little weirdo," Gus sneered. "Nobody demands anything from me. You can't prove it was me who broke your bridge."
 
"But I saw you!" Borf screeched.  Gus waved a hand toward the kitchen table.
 
"Let's sit down and discuss this.”  Borf had to sit on two milk crates to be high enough to reach the beer that Gus offered him. Gus sat across from him drinking another beer.
 
"Let's play cards," Gus suggested.  Borf was in no mood to play cards. He had never played cards. He wanted to take what money he could get and go back to what was left of his kingdom. Never mind that he had enough saved to pay for the bridge ten times over. He wanted Gus to fork over the dough. He itched to get his fingers around Gus' neck, but knew he was no match for an inebriated Gus.
​
Gus shot tobacco spit from the side of his mouth. It landed on the already filthy floor. Borf looked at him with distaste. Borf had always prided himself on a clean house, and he was disgusted.
 
"Why don't you use a spit can?" he asked Gus. Gus aimed a glob of spit at Borf. It barely missed his head.
 
"Very well," Gus told him. "You can be my spit can." Borf leaped off the milk crates and hid beneath the table. Gus pulled him out by his collar. He slammed Borf back onto the milk crates.
 
"Sit there and shut up!" he ordered. Borf sat. Gus began to speak as he dealt cards for Five Card Draw.
 
"I refuse to pay you for anything," "You have no proof that I broke your bridge. Your accusations would not hold up in any court of law." Borf gazed at him through a red haze.
 
"You'd better pay, or you'll be sorry!" he threatened. Gus laughed.                         

"Says who, a pipsqueak like you?" Borf said nothing else. He refused to play cards, making Gus look at him with contempt. Not long afterward, Gus began to doze in a drunken stupor.

Borf watched as Gus began to slide off his chair sideways. Gus hit the hard floor headfirst. Borf winced. That must have hurt, he thought. He hoped it did. He waited for Gus to stir, but it looked as though the man was out for the night.
 
Borf looked around, then began to prowl around the trailer. He was not above thievery, but there seemed to be very little of value there. In the bedroom he found a box of matches. He decided to destroy the kingdom of the man who had destroyed his.
 
He ignited the bedroom curtains first. Looking at them he thought burning them would be an improvement. He went around the trailer setting fire to anything he thought would burn. Gus still lay on the floor, snoring. When the trailer began to blaze, Borf stood in the doorway, watching. Billowing smoke and flames finally roused Gus from sleep. He looked around wildly. He saw the door and bolted toward it with his clothing on fire.
 
Through the smoke Borf could not see Gus running toward him and was knocked into the front yard. Gus began to trample Borf as he tried to get at the flames consuming him. He ran, howling, toward the river, leaving Borf sprawled in the dirt. He sat up and saw all seventeen dogs coming at him. With speed and agility, he never knew he possessed, he made it to the Borfmobile. As he drove away, he felt a wicked satisfaction regarding what he had done. Never mind that the back of his pants was chewed off, and part of his backside was missing. For once, he was happy. He had been vindicated!