I wrote this a while ago...I don't know why. It isn't very good and doesn;t make a whole lot of sense. I know that the gnomes started out as a metaphor for a couple of cowboys I know (knew) in Montana, but that quickly disappeared in...goofiness, I guess.
Save the Gnomes
I was talking to the gnomes in my basement last night. It’s been a while, since I don’t go down there much. I wonder how they are doing sometimes, but they are an independent bunch, and heavily armed, so I generally leave them to their own devices. I was sitting on the floor by the cold air return and it sounded like they were having a party though, so I opened a beer and yelled down to ask them what they were celebrating.
My query was met with the usual response…some small arms fire, a few rebel yells, and some cursing. One of them pushed a chair over to the pipes and yelled back, “We aren’t celebrating. We’re having a wake.”
“Who died?” I wondered.
“Not who, what,” the gnome slurred back.
Gnomes are sticklers for accuracy. “Okay, what died?” I corrected myself.
“Some dignities, some freedoms…there was a slaughter, a mass murder.” The statement was followed by some banging and some muffled threats, then a bout of gunfire.
A new voice came through the register. “Everything’s fine,” it said, “We’re just letting off a little steam.” That was followed by a shotgun blast.
After a while a new voice came from the register, “Rev? It’s me, Teddy. Things here have gone horribly wrong. Our king turned out to be a psychopath. We need a place to hide until he’s gone. Can we live upstairs with you?”
“I thought the King was from a different basement and that you guys just ignored him?”
“He is, but technically he rules all Basement Gnomes. He’s hired a bunch of storm troopers to come here and keep us in line. We’ve killed off the first batch, I hope you don’t mind but we buried them in the kitty litter, but there will be more soon.” Teddy sounded nervous.
I considered that for a moment. My Basement Gnomes aren’t evil really, but they are a little…well…rambunctious you might say. I thought about the implications of having a race of tiny warriors running around my living room listening to heavy metal bagpipe music, exchanging gunfire, and having knife fights to determine who won the latest Scrabble tournament. They scare the dogs and drink all my beer. I decided against it.
I had to help them though. Some of these gnomes are my friends after all, and they’ve kept the cats in line for years, not to mention helping with the laundry. I couldn’t just leave them to be oppressed. I promised to make a few calls.
The King of Basement Gnomes has no jurisdiction above ground level, so I’d have to find a safe place for my gnomes in somebody’s main living area. I called my friend Eugene first, but he refused to help because the King of Gnomes buys things from Eugene’s scrap yard. I called many friends and relatives. Many of them went denied the existence of Basement Gnomes and one of them suggested that I call an exterminator. Some of them seemed a little pissed off about the phone ringing in the middle of the night. My own mother mentioned that sane people are usually asleep at 4:30, not calling people to find a place for their weird friends to sleep. You’d think my mother would be used to that sort of thing by now.
So the gnomes need your help. They require a refuge above ground until a more reasonable ruler can be installed. Anyplace will do…abandoned houses, empty garages, old barns. The gnomes earn their keep too…they kill vermin for food and clothing and provide heat with their rather, uh…shall we say ungainly, mating habits.