Personally, Sam thought some of the trolls were kind of cute, what with their big four-toed feet and long, shining rainbow-colored hair. Sam knew she would give her eyeteeth for a chance to style and cut troll hair, but it was a fool's wish; trolls were feisty, mean-tempered little creatures that died in captivity and disliked human touch. Whenever she and Bogie made a troll haul, they literally moved the beasties in the same night from a well-used bridge to some other place.
Her brother hunched down beside her and shifted uncomfortably. "Anything stirring? I wish those lousy Strakhovs would hurry up and get here. I have a hot date tonight."
Sam rolled her eyes. "Swell. Just when don't you?"
"Well, you have to admit that sitting down to a bite of dessert with Mary Alice Lorz beats the crap outta sitting here in the dark, a bite for mosquitoes, waiting for Nicolas Strakhov to get his just desserts—a crap-filled beating."
"That remains to be seen. Nicolas Strakhov and his brothers are at the top of my shit list. What could be better than seeing them get pelted with troll turds?" Tonight's revenge would be a feast for the senses, like sipping champagne and eating strawberries or trying out a new hair color—though on the grosser end of the spectrum. "I can't wait to see the trolls' welcome wagon for those rotten Russians. Every time I think about them, I see red," she added heatedly. "I can't believe those sneaky Slavs are giving discounts on creature capture." Earlier, her crafty uncle had handed her a flyer snatched from the Strakhov warehouse. Monsters-R-Us was now giving a discount on captures of supernatural creatures in groups of a dozen or more. In big print, their sleazy advertisement read: TROLLS, GREMLINS, GARGOYLES AND GHOSTS—ALL CHEAPER BY THE DOZEN! The price-cutting creeps.
Frustrated, she mumbled, "What this country needs is a good ten-cent cigar, another Roosevelt in the White House and Nicolas Strakhov expelled. I bet he doesn't even know who Kermit the Frog is. And I bet he hates apple pie."
"What do apple pie and Kermit have to do with anything?"
"Oh come on, Bogie. What's more American than apple pie or Kermit the Frog?"
Her baby brother thought a moment. "I think you're wrong. Not about the pie, but about Kermit. Frogs are French. Baseball. Baseball is the big American thing. And football. And don't forget Star Wars and Lord of the Rings." Losing interest in the conversation, he began to scope out the trail below again. "Maybe they're going to be a no-show. It's been dark for over two hours, and they still aren't here."
Sam shook her head. Her brother could be a lot of fun sometimes, but patience wasn't one of his virtues. "You really should learn to be more patient."
"Ha! This from the woman who throws a temper tantrum if I'm ten minutes late to go on a job."
"Time is dough."
Bogie shrugged, then stiffened as he glanced back down the hill. "Sam, look!"
She nodded. "They're here at last. Dumb, dumber and dumberest." Her whole attention was captured by what was going on down the hill and under the bridge. Her night vision binoculars allowed her to see three men slowly and cautiously heading forward—toward the big fat booby trap she and Bogie had engineered.
All three men were tall, well over six feet. They moved with catlike grace and assurance, despite wearing heavy coveralls designed with steel mesh to protect them from troll bites. Those bites could make a human go crazy for a couple of days, since troll saliva had compounds that resembled really bad LSD.
With a thumbs-up at her brother, Sam pushed down on a remote control switch connected to a set of speakers and a CD recording of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy," which was located close to the bridge in some underbrush. She grinned, her white teeth shining in the dark. She knew only too well that there were three things trolls hated absolutely.
Captivity.
People ignoring their tolls.
And classical music.
"Ode to Joy" was an inspired choice, Sam felt.
"Tonight's the night. This time the Strakhov brothers won't come out smelling like a rose," Sam remarked slyly as the sounds of Beethoven saturated the night, clashing cymbals and pounding piano.
Between chuckles, Sam saw that the three men were frozen in their tracks. As the music burst forth, within seconds the trolls had woken from their sleep, shrieked and loped over to gather up their bodily wastes from the spot beneath the bridge where they stockpiled it in case of emergencies. And with remarkable aplomb they began lobbing their missiles at the interlopers, who busily began trying to cast their troll netting.
It was a scene straight from a farce. Sam covered her mouth to dampen her laughter. She could feel her brother beside her shaking with mirth. "To Russia with love, courtesy of the Hammetts," she muttered.
Bogart nudged her. "They don't look like happy campers, these Krapov brothers. Or maybe we should call them the Krap-on brothers."
"What can I say? Shit happens."
Her words cracked both of them up.
Still chuckling, her brother said, "You know, Sam, sometimes you are just plain evil."
Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, she sighed. "Time to go. I would give a week's pay to see them up close, but I think discretion is the better part of valor tonight. They may suspect that we did this. This way, they won't know for sure."
Bogie nodded, and they crept away in the opposite direction.
Before they completely crested the hill, Sam took a quick glance back. Her infrared binoculars showed two of the men holding up their arms as they were being hit by flying objects, while another was being pelted from behind. Oh yes, the shit had surely hit the fan. Or in this case, the fam. The Strakhov family.
Without a Paddle
Angry took on a whole new meaning as Nicolas Strakhov yanked off his protective headgear. He was covered in troll dung from head to toe. Running a hand through his ebony black hair, he stared at his brothers. His smoke gray eyes held a ruthless gleam.
"Somebody sabotaged us!" His voice was coarse and raspy.
Nicolas, known as Nic to most, was a product of both the old and the new Russia. He was a supremely confident man, a natural-born leader. He took what he wanted because no one was usually foolish enough to stand in his way. He was in essence a man who could move mountains. He was also fiercely loyal to his friends and family, although he saw himself as essentially alone, a persuasive, pervasive and perplexing personality.
"Merde! This diabolical dung-throwing means war. We will show no mercy to our enemies!" Nic spat as he began unzipping his protective outerwear.
His two brothers, Gregor and Alexander, nodded in agreement. They too had pulled off their helmets, their pale gray eyes glittering in the twilight, their features taut with anger.
Alex, who was the youngest of the three, remarked slyly, "I bet I know who sabotaged us, Nic."
"I think, so do I. Paranormalbustin' Pest Pursuers, Inc. Who else would care if we rounded up these trolls and sent them off to Russia but our competition?" Nic growled.
Gregor, the middle child, more studious and even tempered, was less resolute. "We don't know for certain. We have no proof. Just because they are unworthy Americans doesn't mean they are behind this morass."
Nic gave his brother a glacial stare. He had made it his business to learn something about his competition, which was this brother and sister team. The sister probably looked like a sumo wrestler and cussed like a sailor. Why else, Nic reasoned, would any reasonable female be in the business of monster removal? Certainly no one dainty or attractive would want to wrestle ghosts and get their pretty white hands dirty—like his own were at this moment. Ugh, troll dung.
Of course, Nic had also gathered that the Hammetts, including their strange old bird of an uncle, were enamored with that Humphrey Bogart fellow and his movies. And after renting some of those classic forties films, he had unwillingly admitted that, though he didn't trust or care too much for his business competition, he did appreciate their taste in entertainment.