By Perry Broxson
“I’m looking for Isabel. Isabel Huldufolk. She’s wee, like me,” said the elf, her voice as darling as a kitten’s mewl.
She was cute, crushingly cute. She stood 19 inches high, wore a tunic made of sunshine and daisies, and exuded an innocence so pure that heavy smoke in the nightclub foyer refused to touch her. The bouncer stood stoic, akimbo, allowing only his eyes to dip and survey the elf. “Isabel the elf – Friday, yes, she should be here. Whom shall I ask is soliciting an audience?”
“My,” the elf said, “you speak quite eloquently for a human. We were told that you all spoke like Orcs with tooth-rot.” She covered her small mouth with her small hand to stifle crystalline laughter.
“Thank you,” the bouncer said, “I’ve been attending Junior College. I want to be an ESPN broadcaster. I played a little…
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