My, my, my, aren't you a curious one. I tried to warn you off, but here you are. Well, we might as well get started. But wait, I'm at work, this will have to wait. I sense your frustration, yet I choose to ignore it. I'll write more sooner or later. Oh, and you will read it. You'll feel compelled to return, because this is the chase. Catch me if you can.
Well now you see what happens when the rabbit eludes the hounds. Imagine you, the beagle, kicking up a scent, chasing a quarry, unseen. Losing the scent. Patiently nosing around and finally you are off again. Your nose so close to the ground you actually have bits of the forest loam stuck in the mucus on the tip of your nose that helps to trap the scent. You actually see the smell, welling up from the ground in waves of infrared. You spot the hare, and your off. I, being an extraordinary bunny, do not panic, my heart does not rev up until it bursts. I cross a river and you, you bound after. The current sweeps you far down stream and you once again lose my scent. Back to work, ta.
Okay, is everybody annoyed? Tell it to someone who cares. You read this because you are under my control. You hate the story because there is no point, but you can't be sure of that. I could tell you to stop reading here, but you'd go on. I could assure you that you wouldn't miss anything if you stopped here, right here, don't go any further, but you'd read on. You are certainly obtuse. You should know that about yourself. Your instinct is to continue reading, thinking that there has to be a point. I promise there is a point, maybe. Follow along, trail along behind my feet, obedient like a puppy. Waiting, occasionally looking up expecting a crumb, a morsel. Not yet, wait, be patient, it will come. It has to, doesn't it? Doesn't it??
Okay, okay, you win, on to the story. The trolls sat in a quiet corner of the bistro reading. No this isn't odd, trolls love to read, they love quiet corners, they love bistros. Ogres, on the other hand prefer quiet evenings at home, with a diet cola and a bag of chips. No silly, ogres don't read, they write. They write novels, short stories and sometimes, though very rarely, poetry. The poetry market is flooded with gargoyles. You've never lived until you read gargoyle poetry. Unfortunately gargoyle poetry is a little like Chinese food, I'll dispense with the cliche here. Since I don't have the Greater Gargoyle Poetry Anthology at hand, you'll have to get it yourself. Trust me you'll enjoy it over and over again, sometimes many times in a single day. Anyway, back to the trolls. They sat in that quiet corner reading, well, you're not going to believe this, but they happen to be reading this story. Slowly turning pages, actually one of them has the e-book so he scrolls through page after page. Enraptured, they are, continually turning pages or scrolling as the case may be. They can't stop. As I gaze out from the pages or screens, as the case may be, I write, I see the faces of the trolls finally coming into focus.
Oh, hi, it's just you.