Here is a story that could be interpreted as a birthday ficlet for Amy B - but it's pure coincidence, I wrote it first and saw that it was her birthday later. It's yet another insane story in reply to the 'Where did Olaf the Troll go?' challenge at 'Twisting the Hellmouth'. 700 words exactly, rating R for naughty words. Crossover with a certain 1994 Luc Besson film.
Heart and Troll of New York City
Even for New York this was an unusual sight. As tall as a basketball player, but far broader, the immense green-skinned man sent pedestrians flying as he barged his way through the crowds. “Ho, flee my wrath, puny New Yorkers,” he bellowed. “I despise you, with your bagels, your Yankees, your Ghostbusters, your yellow vehicles that honk like the geese of the Frisians, and your kvetching.” He turned into an alley and was promptly accosted by two young men.
“Hey, sucka, give me yo’ money,” one said, thrusting a gun towards the troll.
Olaf’s hand shot out with eye-baffling speed and removed the gun from the mugger’s hand. The trigger finger came with it. The other mugger lunged with a knife. Olaf smashed a fist down on the youth’s head and sent him flopping limply to the ground.
“No, miserable excuses for warriors,” Olaf chortled. “You shall give me your gold, and your paltry weapons, and perhaps I shall not paint the blood eagle on your backs.”
Olaf moved on. He approached a tall building where several vehicles in white with blue stripes, their sides decorated with the runes ‘NYPD’, were coming to a halt on the roadway in front. He paid them no mind and paused to drive his hand through a glass window to snatch up a handful of cooked meats that had caught his eye. He crammed them into his mouth, smacking his lips appreciatively, and ignored the protests of the shopkeeper who ran out onto the sidewalk.
“Hey, that guy’s just robbed my store!” the deli owner yelled. “Right in front of a whole bunch of New York’s finest! What do I pay my taxes for? Arrest him!”
A blue-clad man looked at the troll and then turned to a fair-haired man who stood beside a car. “I guess we’d better arrest him, Mr. Stansfield,” the man in blue said. “All that yelling might tip the cleaner off that we’re around.”
“I don’t need this crap,” said Stansfield. His eyes flicked from side to side and held a manic gleam. “Okay, arrest the big ape. Léon will keep for a few minutes.”
Two minutes later Stansfield fumbled with his radio. It was difficult to operate it because he wasn’t used to doing so whilst hanging upside-down from a street light. His position gave him an excellent view of the carnage below. Olaf was roaring with laughter as he played with an inverted squad car, spinning it around on its roof. “Get everyone!” Stansfield yelled into the radio. It crackled in reply. “I don’t care!” Stansfield shouted. “Absolutely fucking everyone!”
Fifteen minutes later a black-clad SWAT team member had joined Stansfield atop the lamp-post. Wrecked squad cars littered the area, a black SWAT van was impaled on a fire hydrant with water gushing from its windows, and a sergeant was weeping at the foot of the lamp-post as he tried to remove his night-stick from his ass.
Olaf was holding up the Chief of Police by his collar and shaking him. “I have defeated your finest warriors, New Yorker,” the troll roared. “The city belongs to me. Now bring me Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda, for I wouldst make merry sport with them.”
“Yes, sir,” the Chief of Police whimpered, and Olaf released him. The man fled and Olaf looked around for further amusement.
Crowds had gathered at a safe distance. Amongst them Olaf spied women with baby carriages. “Babies!” he cried. “I shall feast on juicy plump babies.” He strode towards the appetizing morsels.
Suddenly a man barred his way. A slim man, obviously not young for his close cropped beard was graying, clad in a white collarless shirt and a long black coat like that of the man who had prattled of onions in the town where the Slayer lived. Round dark glasses obscured the man’s eyes. A girl stood behind him, a skinny thing too young for merry sport, wearing a red woolen hat and holding a plant in a pot.
The man met Olaf’s stare without flinching. “No women, no kids,” he said in a cold voice.
An unfamiliar emotion stirred in Olaf for the first time in over eleven hundred years.