Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer was on his third lap between the North Gate and South Gate Passes — Mountaineer Pebblebitty’s orders for the day — when the first nearly naked gnome came panting by.
“Sir,” Ringo blinked, dismounting from Beer Run, “Are ye all right? Do ye need any help?”
“No can do!” the gnome barked. “No help allowed!”
Ringo watched, baffled, as the gnome ran on toward the Stonewrought Pass, somehow avoiding the notice of the huge spiders in that foliage on either side of the road — for now, at least.
“Flippin’ gnomes,” Ringo said, climbing back into the saddle.
“Stand aside!” squeaked a gnome, darting through Beer Run’s legs.
“Get out of the way, dwarf!” called another.
Ringo whirled around to see a sea of pale bare gnome flesh rushing down the hill from Dun Morogh.
“On your left!”
“On your right!”
“Khaz’goroth on a cracker!” Ringo barked. “Where are all ye wee buggers headed?”
“Take the bloody tram, then!”
“Can’t!” a gnome racing past yelled back.
“Well, of course it’s down,” Ringo said, “It’s …”
“He means broken!” Another gnome replied.
“Besides,” one of the last gnomes racing past panted, “It’s against the rules!”
“‘Rules?’” a baffled Ringo asked himself, as he pondered the sight of the gnomes running down to the gate. Beer Run snorted and Ringo nodded, tapping his temple with one finger. “These gnomes are crazy!”
((Happy fifth anniversary, Leftovers! Here’s to five more!))
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