Читать книгу Hobgoblin and the Seven Stinkers of Rancidia - Kyle Sullivan - Страница 32

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pillow—a burlap sack stuffed with dried beans. He patted each of them on the head in turn and said, “Nighty night, little guys.”

Before he lay down for the night, Hobgoblin walked across the room to the little nook in the wall where a candle faintly burned. He had once powered the electric lights of his mud hut with delightfully nasty-smelling sulfide gas, but the cranky warthog had stopped delivering it several years ago.

Hobgoblin didn’t mind the candlelight so much, having recently overcome a fear of fire. But without sulfide, it was far chillier at night than it used to be. He missed the warm, stinky drafts of gas that used to waft through his hut all night.

He blew out the candle, and the darkness washed over them. Nestling into his muck bed, he covered himself with empty burlap bean sacks.

Hobgoblin smiled as he listened to the gentle breathing of the flies beside his head. The room settled with comfort, calm, and the familiar aroma of bedtime farts.

Minutes later, just as the first snore escaped Hobgoblin’s nose, something slipped into the hut,