[Grimp-itorial Notes: I stole this piece out of the Hellion's private journal, because spying can be fun, hehehe.  Oh, and obviously she lies about naming me I was responsible for that myself.]

Maybe I shouldn't have lied, this time.  That little green thing asked if I was a music journalist.  I looked at it and said, "Well, yeah, of course."  Agreeing is such an agreeable trait; a lady never contradicts.  Well, I didn't lie so much as make a sarcastic response that it didn't get.  And now I'm a music journalist off to meet The
Band of Orcs.

Ouch!  My mistake.  A Band of Orcs.

Damn, that green thing can pinch!  I wonder if it's an orc.

More pinching.

Not an orc.

I didn't know creatures existed that could pinch with their toes.  I think I kind of hate this thing, but I also think it wants me to hate it, and I think I have pinch-with-toes envy.

Seems this thing is either a Grimp, or THE Grimp.  Not clear on that. I think it told me its name, but it mostly sounded like the Grimp tried to cough a live mouse out its nose--a gruesome, mutant mouse with extra feet and two tails.  I'll call it "Gruesom Grimp," then. Alliteration rocks.  And if I cough the word "gruesome" the Grimp's eyes kind of twinkle at me, which either means it likes me or wants to see for itself how warm my guts are.

Mom, I'm sorry.  I know you wanted me to be on Broadway or some shit, but now it seems I'm going to be doing  promotions for some inexplicable gaggle of humanoid green things in a heavy metal band. If I ever get to my high school reunion, this is all going to be worthwhile...

[new entry]

Yup, still haven't learned to think before I speak.  Or really, not to speak at all when some kind of Fates are listening.  There's no way in hell -or whatever dimension this is-that this is going to be worthwhile.

First the Grimp thing told me to talk to one of the Band, a Filthgrinder to be precise.  The name fits.  I could smell this thing the instant Grimp said its name, and when it grunted around its tusks even my retinas could smell it.

After our introduction, the Grimp said the interview would commence the minute the portrait was done.  Portrait?  Now we've got culture? Where did that come from?  Now orcs are too special for basic photography?
On second thought, maybe avoiding photo-realism is a brilliant move.  Seeing these things in reality would shell-shock anything remotely human.  When they finally give concerts on Earth, it's gonna be something else.
The Grimp hired a painter calling himself Lukacs the Illustrious. Humility is as foreign here as deodorant).  But I've got to say, Lukacs handled the thing with style.  He never winced when the wind changed direction, and he ate whatever they gave him without flinching.

Seriously impressive.

Some strange female, I'm guessing an elf, also sat for the portrait. She maintained supreme poise as well; I
don't think her eyebrows moved once.  Holding a decapitated head probably wasn't part of her upbringing, but she held that thing like a Hollywood hireling holds a teacup Chihuahua.  Don't quite know where she came from, but it's clear she was from a whole different dimension than either the Grimp or A Band of Orcs.

And me?  I got to hug that Filthgrinder's leg.

A nice, big, green, orcish leg, and I hugged for about as long as it took Moses to build that arc and live down the teasing.

Oh, the pain of having to grasp that green leg for ages while he farted and flexed and kept asking how tall he looked from that angle. Well, he spent the first twelve hours alternately telling me not to look at his codpiece, and asking how his codpiece looked. Then he switched to asking how tall he looked.

The Grimp, obliging creature that it is, translated every word.  Over and over and over.  (I couldn't understand a thing, but even I could tell the Filthgrinder just repeated itself. Guess his genius lies in other directions.)

I was supposed to interview Filthgrinder, and instead I got a nice steep-angled view of his cod-piece and a sinus cavity full of orcish musk.

I'm sure my life is all but complete.

When the portrait was done enough, Grimp told the still-flexing Filthgrinder that my name was Hellion, and I was supposed to interview him.  "Hellion" is close enough; far be it from me to quibble about the idiocy of
pinchy-toed little green things that can't say "Helen".  My namesake launched a thousand ships.  I'm not sure I want to wonder what they're going to launch through me.

I looked up.

Filthgrinder looked down.

I smiled.

He drooled around his tusks.

He then leaned over, snatched the head out of the elf's hand, and took a bite out of it.  Maggots seethed out of the crater in its cranium.  I can't believe that elf held on to that thing for 12 hours! The Grimp said something as Filthgrinder walked off, but he grunted something filled with bits of skull, and then he swung his battle guitar onto the other shoulder and strutted away.

The Grimp turned to me and translated, "He doesn't like talking.  He's going to go find something furry to stomp on."

Yes.  I am glad I shave my legs.

[The Grimp's 2 coppers' worth: you can pick up the t-shirt the Hellion posed with Filthgrinder for at www.abandoforcs.com/Loot.htm .  Of course, if you're a newsletter subscriber use the link in this month's issue to get the discount price ]