Читать книгу Hobgoblin and the Seven Stinkers of Rancidia - Kyle Sullivan - Страница 25

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“Prumpf! Pruumpf! Prmpf! Prmpf! Prmpf!!”

Hobgoblin resumed his toots. The six flies took turns riding the current of hot air that burst out of the tuba with every “prumpf.”

The flies were Hobgoblin’s constant companions, and really, his only companions. The one exception was a monthly visit from a cranky warthog from Pootonia. On the sixth day of every month, the gnarled beast plodded through the Mucklands with his squeaky wheelbarrow to deliver supplies and haul away harvested beans.

Much to Hobgoblin’s discomfort, the warthog would also deliver disturbing updates about neigh-boring Rancidia and its ogre problem. These updates distressed Hobgoblin immensely, so he had spent the last several years trying his best to ignore them. He’d much rather focus on pleasant things like tooting—both on his tuba and otherwise.

The flies continued riding the tuba current, every new toot an opportunity to practice flips and twists and twirls. Thanks to these flies, Hobgoblin was never, ever lonely. He loved them very much, and they loved him. The special bond that developed between hobgoblins and their flies was well known