rayaso | Season 11, Week 1, "Resolution"

TROLL SQUAD

No one has ever known what to do about trolls. Distantly related to humans through the fairy tale branch of evolution, trolls are the last survivors of one of the more peculiar hereditary lines. Our natural habitat under bridges in enchanted forests disappeared long ago, but we held on, determined to survive.

Like humans, we evolved over the years. We increased in intelligence but became smaller in size, no longer shaking the earth as monstrous battle trolls. Many of us can smile without scaring people and we wear clothes when necessary. As trolls adapted to the modern world, our colonies flourished once again.

The greatest change has come in talking – we no longer grunt and shake clubs. A few of us probably speak Scottish, but since no one can understand the Scots, no one is sure. “They sound just like us,” one Scotsman might have said in his local pub. “And they drink like fish!”

Wherever brute strength is needed, trolls can usually be found – moving furniture, mining coal, or working as Amazon employees, loading and delivering the heaviest packages with ease. “Same day delivery” usually means trolls. The lucky ones play themselves in amusement parks.

Football teams recruited heavily among us for years. Coaches found that an offensive line of trolls simply couldn’t be stopped, easily escorting even the slowest runner into the end zone. The NFL eventually banned trolls when ratings plummeted and fans transferred their affections to baseball as “less boring.” The end came when many of the troll players were tentatively identified as female. “How could we tell?” pleaded the coaches.

Despite all the progress, troll-human contacts sometimes get a little rough. You make a troll mad at your own risk, and it never goes well for the humans.

That’s where I come in. I’m Officer Urg Bluk, “the troll” to my friends. I’m the head of Troll Squad. In fact, I’m the only member – and the only troll in law enforcement. It’s my job to solve troll-related crimes.

“It takes a troll to cuff a troll,” the captain said when he gave me my assignment. “I’m tired of losing good men trying to arrest your kind.”

Too many officers were coming back with broken bones – trolls hate restraints and will actually be very peaceful if you say “please.” Unfortunately, “please” is not in the department manual and cuffing suspects is, so here I am.

My small office is in the basement across from the janitor’s closet and next door to the Grammar Police, which has two full-time officers. Right now, they’re working on the death of the Oxford comma.

Troll crime has never been a big budget item, mostly because trolls are easy to catch. They never run away and always confess. The crimes are mostly short-lived fist fights. Begin a sentence with “you’re uglier than” and you’ll finish it in the hospital.

Trolls are never involved in property crimes – we want respect, not money. We don’t need much, since trolls still like to live in caves, but hurt our feelings and it’s lights out. For creatures with such thick hides, we have remarkably thin skins.

I love my job. My case clearance rate is 100% and I can usually go home after lunch.

But this latest case is threatening my afternoon nap. I know I’ll solve it – I never give up – but these trolls are different. They’ve been robbing banks and using guns, and if I don’t stop them soon, the Feds will take over, and that means black SUVs roaring around the streets with testosterone-driven “special” agents just looking for a gun battle to make the evening news. The higher the body count, the better for these bozos, who would rather kill a troll than solve a crime. They play too many video games.

There are five trolls in the gang, and their method is always the same. Four of them force their way into a bank at closing time, when all the customers have left, with the fifth a few yards behind. They wear rubber human masks to hide their features, but the witnesses know they’re trolls from their bulk. They never say anything -- the guns do all the talking. They started with simple smash and grabs of the tellers’ cash, but this last time they cleaned out the vault.

These perps didn’t care about the usual counter-measures. They ignored the dye packs – they just let them explode. It shouldn’t be that hard to find blue trolls, but so far, nothing.

I went out to the bank to get more witness statements. When I got back, there was a message from the FBI: “twenty-four hours or we take over.”

The captain finally let me borrow Maggie from the Grammar Police – Cap hates losing cases to the Feds. Maggie’s usually in charge of excess exclamation points.

“We’ve already lost the Internet!” she once told me, “but someone’s got to stop them from taking over print!! And I guess that someone is me!!!”

“Don’t be a hero,” I told her, but nothing stops Maggie. I’m lucky to have her.

Maggie squeezed into the office with me to look at the case file. It was thin, mostly photos from the bank’s security cameras. I hadn’t paid them much attention yet, but Maggie, with her love for detail, started going over them with a magnifying glass.

“Look at this,” she said. “See anything unusual?”

“Five fingers,” I said, looking at my hands. Trolls only have four.

“And here,” she replied, pointing at a robber’s neck.

I saw two layers of rubber masks that had slipped above his shirt collar. There should only have been one. Maggie had spotted a troll mask under the human disguise, with a barely visible tan line. Trolls don’t tan, they shed.

“There’s a troll mask under the human one,” said Maggie.

“. . . and trolls don’t sweat,” I added, pointing out the beads of moisture just under the second mask. He’s a human masquerading as a troll disguised as a human!”

“But they’re huge,” said Maggie, “almost as big as you. How do we find five guys that big? We can’t see their faces and they’re wearing gloves.”

The room went quiet while we thought.

We played the bank’s video over and over, hoping for a break.

Finally, inspiration hit. Trolls are methodical and rarely have sudden moments of clarity. When it happens, it hits like a ton of bricks and these bricks made me groan.

“Indigestion?” said Maggie, eyeing the door for a quick exit.

“No,” I replied, “an idea.”

“See how they move,” I continued. “The smaller one is clearly in charge and the other four move as a unit, staying together to protect the shorter robber. It’s all highly planned and coordinated.”

“They’re football players,” said Maggie, her eyes getting big.

“Trolls put a lot of players out of work,” I added, “especially offensive linemen and quarterbacks. Some of them had trouble adjusting to being replaced by trolls. These losers used their skills to rob banks.”

“But how do we find which ones?” said Maggie.

“Start with the local team,” I said. “Check alibis. Review their financials. You know the drill.”

I handled the alibis and witness interviews. People open up to a troll with a badge. Fear does that.

Maggie did the financial investigation. All that time catching grammar offenders had made her a research wizard.

In the end, it all came together quickly. Our suspects were Chad Evers, former quarterback for the Bruisers, and Tyron Neely, K.J. Harley, Brendon White, and Leon Major, his offensive linemen. They had all lost their jobs to trolls and had fallen on hard times.

We got search warrants and raided their homes. We found nothing on the linemen, but in Evers’ garage we found his masks hidden in a tool chest, complete with blue dye stains.

The linemen lawyered up, but the quarterback gave them all away, angling for a deal. When I notified the FBI, you could almost hear the agents cry. Cap was almost as effusive. Without looking up, he handed me a new case file, then went back to his coffee.

Now that Maggie has had a taste of real police work, I know she’ll want more. If I can pry her loose from the Grammar Police, she’ll make a great addition to Troll Squad -- if she can just ease up on my split infinitives.

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