Happy birthday to Queen of Crossovers jedibuttercup
This is a crossover far madder than any of hers. It’s not the Olaf ficlet that I mentioned yesterday; I was attacked by a most unusual plot bunny during the night at work and I couldn’t resist its onslaught. I had to set to work as soon as I arrived home and here is the result. Another of the series in which Willow’s banishing spell sends Olaf into another fandom instead of to the Land of the Trolls. This time it’s to the Island of Sodor, the setting for the ‘Railway Series’ by Rev. W. Awdry, starring Thomas the Tank Engine. Rating PG. 700 words.
Thomas and the Troublesome Troll
Henry the Green Engine slammed on his brakes and blew a blast on his whistle. The enormous humanoid figure who stood in the middle of the tracks ignored the whistle’s warning and stood firm.
“Ho, engine, I challenge you,” roared Olaf, for it was he. “I have found a railwayman’s hammer and, though it is not the match of my Troll God hammer, it will serve well enough to wreak destruction on all who oppose me in this island of Sodor.”
Henry came to a screeching halt a few feet short of Olaf. The troll bellowed a war cry and brandished the hammer high. Henry thought of the damage that the hammer could do to his fine green paint and burnished brass and hastily threw himself into reverse. Olaf threw back his head and roared with laughter.
Another whistle, and a rapidly approaching ‘chuffing’ noise, heralded the arrival of Gordon the Big Engine pulling the Express. Olaf turned to confront the new arrival. Soon Gordon, too, was braking to a halt and then frantically backing away.
The Fat Controller, Sir Topham Hatt, arrived at a run to find out what was disrupting the passage of the trains. Olaf charged him, bellowing war cries, and pursued the Fat Controller along the branch line.
“You do well to flee, Fat Controller,” yelled Olaf. “I shall pulverise your locomotives and your goods wagons. I shall burn their coal and make merry sport with the more attractive carriages.”
At that moment Thomas the Tank Engine appeared behind Olaf, who was still watching the Fat Controller’s flight and did not see the small engine; the noise of Henry and Gordon’s whistles drowned out the sound of Thomas approaching. Thomas seized the opportunity and rushed at top speed along the line. He rammed into Olaf and sent the troll flying from the track.
Olaf went up in the air and through the doors of the engine repair shed. There he landed in a vat of paint being used to retouch the paint of James the Red Engine. There was a mighty ‘splash’ and Olaf surfaced, spluttering, completely red from head to foot.
“By Odin!” he exclaimed. “Now I am Olaf the Red.”
The Fat Controller turned around in his flight and hurried back, panting, to confront the troll. “You have been a great nuisance,” he said, “and I hope you are thoroughly ashamed of yourself. Either go away or buy a ticket.”
“Your little blue engine has vanquished me fair and square, oh fat one,” said Olaf, “and I shall depart from the Island of Sodor. I shall take a boat across the Irish Sea to the Isle of Man, and there I shall make merry sport at the Tourist Trophy races. First, however, I must partake of some fragrant ale, for I am exceedingly thirsty and this paint is a vile taste in my mouth. I have silver with which to pay.”
The Fat Controller frowned, but he felt sympathy for the paint-covered troll and, reluctantly, agreed. The Express had come to a halt nearby and the Fat Controller climbed up into the buffet car. He returned a few moments later carrying a tray laden with disposable paper cups filled with beer. He handed one to Olaf, who raised it to his lips and sipped.
“A poor brew,” said Olaf. “Watney’s Red Barrel. It quenches the thirst but that is all.” Olaf drained the cup and burped.
The Fat Controller gave him another beer. “Better,” said Olaf. “Young’s Special London Ale.”
Sir Topham Hatt raised his eyebrows. “Correct,” he said. “Try this one.”
“Newcastle Brown Ale,” said Olaf, gulping the beer down. He held out his hand for a refill. “Ah, Marston’s Pedigree Bitter,” he declared. “A fine brew indeed.”
“I’m impressed,” said the Fat Controller, “but I doubt that you will be able to correctly identify this one.”
“Hah!” Olaf said, upon tasting the beer. “I recognise this one too. Három Király, from the Pécs brewery in Hungary.”
“You are right,” confirmed the Fat Controller. “You have correctly identified every beer stocked by the Sodor Railways. Truly remarkable.”
“Yes,” agreed Thomas, with a hiss of released steam. “Rude Olaf the Red knows train beer.”