I Got ID, Tho
At exactly 10:00 PM on the dot (the sandcastle’s big clock glowed like an orange moon), the line outside Club Sandstorm stretched all the way past the licorice dunes. Fairies flitted overhead. A satyr played club beats on panpipes. Laser lights sliced across the sky in rhythm with a pulsing thump that rattled the enchanted seashell chandeliers inside.
But none of that mattered to Grizzle.
Grizzle the Goblin stood at the velvet rope, arms crossed and jaw clenched so hard his tusks squeaked. He wore the traditional black tank top of the Sandstorm Bouncers’ Guild, plus a scowl honed by a decade of dealing with mushroom trippers, drunken pixies, and—worst of all--gnomes.
Next to him stood his pride and joy: a handcrafted, painstakingly painted wooden sign that read:
“NO GNOMES ALLOWED.”
No fine print. No exceptions.
“Even the cute ones,” he’d told management. “Especially the cute ones.”
“Even if they bring artisanal cupcakes?” asked management.
“Especially if they bring artisanal cupcakes,” Grizzle growled. “That’s how they get you.”
Tonight, though, the gnomes were back with a vengeance.
“Hiya!” chirped one, bouncing up to the rope like it was a trampoline. His beard was freshly fluffed, his eyes sparkled like polished marbles, and his red hat was so pointy it could pierce a smug unicorn. He flashed an ID the size of a placemat.
Grizzle sighed and didn’t even look up. “No.”
“But I’m totally a goblin,” the gnome said, jabbing at his ID. “See? Official government document. Got the photo and everything!”
Grizzle took it, turned it over, and deadpanned: “It says your name is ‘Gobbo McGobface.’”
The gnome gasped with theatrical outrage. “How dare you! That’s a very common goblin name in the Swamplands of Bureaucratica!”
Grizzle gave him a look so flat it could press flowers.
“Please?” the gnome tried. “I’ve been working on my goblin impression! ‘RAAARGH taxes! Grrrr paperwork!’” He did jazz hands. “See? I’m a natural.”
“Still no,” Grizzle said, and handed back the ID. “Go scam a troll.”
The gnome wandered off, mumbling something about “species profiling” and “hat-based discrimination.” Grizzle shook his head and turned back to the line—only to pause.
Something was wrong.
No, not wrong… suspicious.
The crowd parted slightly, and that’s when he saw it: rolling across the sandy path like a plaid fever dream… a Trojan horse.
More specifically, a Trojan gnome horse.
It was about five feet tall, patchwork plaid, and creaked ominously with every wheel-turn. Inside, Grizzle could spot at least seven red-capped heads peeking from seams, trapdoors, and secret flaps. One gnome was sticking out his tongue. Another held opera glasses. One popped out of the horse’s nostril and flashed a middle finger.
And the worst part? They weren’t even being subtle.
A gnome near the base held up a tiny sign of his own:
“WE ARE TOTALLY NOT GNOMES.”
Grizzle stomped over, dragging the velvet rope behind him like a shamed noodle. “You!” he barked.
The Trojan horse squeaked to a halt.
“Hi again,” called the gnome from earlier, now riding proudly from the horse’s mane like it was a parade float. “We’re part of the scheduled entertainment!”
“You’re not on the list.”
“Check again!” He pointed to the horse’s rear, where someone had hastily Sharpie’d the words DJ GNO-MATIC in backwards letters.
Grizzle narrowed his eyes. “You brought a plaid horse full of gnomes to sneak into a sandcastle rave?”
The gnome puffed up. “It’s called theatre, Grizzle. Ever heard of it?”
At that moment, a sleepy goblin stumbled past the scene, clutching a pillow like it was a baby goat. He blinked at the horse, muttered, “I dreamed this once,” and wandered off into the dunes.
Grizzle looked from the pillow goblin, to the sign in his hands, to the gnomes now striking glamour poses inside the horse.
He took a deep breath.
Then he unhooked the rope and stepped aside.
The gnomes froze. “Wait… we’re allowed in?”
Grizzle gave a slow, ominous smile.
“Sure,” he said. “You’re totally goblins, right?”
The gnomes all nodded in unison, eager as puppies.
“Then enjoy the goblin-only foam pit,” Grizzle said sweetly, gesturing toward a side door with a glowing sign that read:
“EXCLUSIVE GOBLIN ZONE – FEATURING LIVE SWAMP EELS.”
The gnomes screamed.
One tried to reverse the horse. Another shouted “RETREAT!” A third shouted “IT WAS WORTH A TRY!” as they tumbled out, one by one, collapsing in a heap of plaid and pride.
Grizzle dusted off his hands, fixed his sign, and turned back to the main line.
“Next!” he barked.
A fairy approached and winked. “You know, for someone who hates drama…”
Grizzle grunted. “I don’t hate drama.” Then he smirked. “I just hate gnomes.”
But none of that mattered to Grizzle.
Grizzle the Goblin stood at the velvet rope, arms crossed and jaw clenched so hard his tusks squeaked. He wore the traditional black tank top of the Sandstorm Bouncers’ Guild, plus a scowl honed by a decade of dealing with mushroom trippers, drunken pixies, and—worst of all--gnomes.
Next to him stood his pride and joy: a handcrafted, painstakingly painted wooden sign that read:
“NO GNOMES ALLOWED.”
No fine print. No exceptions.
“Even the cute ones,” he’d told management. “Especially the cute ones.”
“Even if they bring artisanal cupcakes?” asked management.
“Especially if they bring artisanal cupcakes,” Grizzle growled. “That’s how they get you.”
Tonight, though, the gnomes were back with a vengeance.
“Hiya!” chirped one, bouncing up to the rope like it was a trampoline. His beard was freshly fluffed, his eyes sparkled like polished marbles, and his red hat was so pointy it could pierce a smug unicorn. He flashed an ID the size of a placemat.
Grizzle sighed and didn’t even look up. “No.”
“But I’m totally a goblin,” the gnome said, jabbing at his ID. “See? Official government document. Got the photo and everything!”
Grizzle took it, turned it over, and deadpanned: “It says your name is ‘Gobbo McGobface.’”
The gnome gasped with theatrical outrage. “How dare you! That’s a very common goblin name in the Swamplands of Bureaucratica!”
Grizzle gave him a look so flat it could press flowers.
“Please?” the gnome tried. “I’ve been working on my goblin impression! ‘RAAARGH taxes! Grrrr paperwork!’” He did jazz hands. “See? I’m a natural.”
“Still no,” Grizzle said, and handed back the ID. “Go scam a troll.”
The gnome wandered off, mumbling something about “species profiling” and “hat-based discrimination.” Grizzle shook his head and turned back to the line—only to pause.
Something was wrong.
No, not wrong… suspicious.
The crowd parted slightly, and that’s when he saw it: rolling across the sandy path like a plaid fever dream… a Trojan horse.
More specifically, a Trojan gnome horse.
It was about five feet tall, patchwork plaid, and creaked ominously with every wheel-turn. Inside, Grizzle could spot at least seven red-capped heads peeking from seams, trapdoors, and secret flaps. One gnome was sticking out his tongue. Another held opera glasses. One popped out of the horse’s nostril and flashed a middle finger.
And the worst part? They weren’t even being subtle.
A gnome near the base held up a tiny sign of his own:
“WE ARE TOTALLY NOT GNOMES.”
Grizzle stomped over, dragging the velvet rope behind him like a shamed noodle. “You!” he barked.
The Trojan horse squeaked to a halt.
“Hi again,” called the gnome from earlier, now riding proudly from the horse’s mane like it was a parade float. “We’re part of the scheduled entertainment!”
“You’re not on the list.”
“Check again!” He pointed to the horse’s rear, where someone had hastily Sharpie’d the words DJ GNO-MATIC in backwards letters.
Grizzle narrowed his eyes. “You brought a plaid horse full of gnomes to sneak into a sandcastle rave?”
The gnome puffed up. “It’s called theatre, Grizzle. Ever heard of it?”
At that moment, a sleepy goblin stumbled past the scene, clutching a pillow like it was a baby goat. He blinked at the horse, muttered, “I dreamed this once,” and wandered off into the dunes.
Grizzle looked from the pillow goblin, to the sign in his hands, to the gnomes now striking glamour poses inside the horse.
He took a deep breath.
Then he unhooked the rope and stepped aside.
The gnomes froze. “Wait… we’re allowed in?”
Grizzle gave a slow, ominous smile.
“Sure,” he said. “You’re totally goblins, right?”
The gnomes all nodded in unison, eager as puppies.
“Then enjoy the goblin-only foam pit,” Grizzle said sweetly, gesturing toward a side door with a glowing sign that read:
“EXCLUSIVE GOBLIN ZONE – FEATURING LIVE SWAMP EELS.”
The gnomes screamed.
One tried to reverse the horse. Another shouted “RETREAT!” A third shouted “IT WAS WORTH A TRY!” as they tumbled out, one by one, collapsing in a heap of plaid and pride.
Grizzle dusted off his hands, fixed his sign, and turned back to the main line.
“Next!” he barked.
A fairy approached and winked. “You know, for someone who hates drama…”
Grizzle grunted. “I don’t hate drama.” Then he smirked. “I just hate gnomes.”
For Vibrant Visionaries 9: Light, Clock, Sneak, Pillow, Sand castle, ID, Plaid
