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11:03 am - Welcome to Not Racist Atoll

This morning I heard a car pulling into the driveway. Looking out the window over the sink, I saw an entirely unfamiliar Cadillac being parked by a goblin in a suit. I went outside, mug of dewspark in hand, to find out what he wanted. The goblin appeared to be getting a briefcase or laptop case of some sort out of the passenger seat. What? Yes, it's relevant to the story that he was a goblin.



"Good morning... Can I help you with something?"



He leaned out to look me over. "No," he gurgled somewhat dismissively. "I don't think so." Then he... Yes, I mean gurgled. Oh, come on. It's not just an accent. You've heard them talk. They f'ing gurgle. Anyway, case in hand, he closed the door and locked it with his little key-fob, and was about to walk away.



"What the hell, dude?" I said to him.



He stopped and looked back with his good eye. "I'm sorry?" he asked. Oh, let's not pretend that they don't have a potent eye and a cursed eye. If he'd looked at me with his cursed eye, this would have become a different kind of story and you know it.



"Why are you leaving your car in my driveway?" I asked.



"Driveway? This is my personal parking space at work," he sniffed. "My office is right over here."



"Your what...? Bullshit. Wait... Where's your office, exactly?"



He waved his arms (and the briefcase) around to sort of indicate the entire neighborhood, and the old-fish stank hit me. What? What? I know they don't all smell like old fish but this one most certainly did and you know what it means when they do. It's totally relevant. I'm not just bringing it up because I don't like them.



"Okay, buddy, I think..." I started to say in as calm a voice as I could, but then he suddenly made the little devil-flick sign with his free hand. The last of the dewspark in my mug magically superheated into explosive steam, blasting up at my... I'll call it what I damn well want to, and I damn well want to call it magic. It's *not* superstitious of me! It's not like you know how they do it either, do you? No. Nobody does. Probably they don't even know how they do it. That's f'ing magic.



Anyway, once he threw a flick at me, the gloves were off. I tossed the hissing mug onto the lawn hastily and got out my cold iron taser. The shock of recognition flared in his good eye about two seconds later, but before he could glare a curse into me, I shot him full of juice and he exploded in a puff of smoke. Given the reek and the obvious encroachment of insanity, he wasn't long for the world anyway; his glamour, the glamour that had no doubt enabled whatever career had bought that expensive Cadillac, was on its way out.



Oh, really? Name one goblin you know in a serious professional career who got there through being qualified and not through night-glamour. In fact, name one f'ing goblin you actually know, personally, well enough to spend time with. That's what I thought. I'm no racist where people are concerned - elves are elves, whether sky or sea or forest or cave - but let's not kid ourselves: goblins are something else entirely.



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For consideration: orcs, on the other hand, orcs we can at least do business with