by Peter AronsonThis is a letter for use in playing Do: Pilgrims of the Flying Temple.
Guys, you got to help us!
We got elves everywhere, and I tell you, they're driving us all around the bend! And I don't mean two-foot-tall little cute Christmas elves, either, but the six-foot-tall variety, complete with wise gray eyes, pointed ears, silver hair, billowing cloaks -- the whole nine yards.
They showed up on a Monday (which kind of figures, somehow). It was a pretty ordinary Monday with too much traffic, too much work, and not enough coffee or sleep. You know, Monday. Then, they came walking out of every wood on the world at the same time. Except, you know, these guys don't exactly walk anywhere; they stride or they glide or appear silently, but Heaven forbid they should do anything so ordinary as just walk like normal people.
At first, they just stood around in little clumps, looking calm and all-knowing. Then they started frowning in disapproval at normal stuff, like cars and smokestacks and garbage cans. Then, dear god, they started to share their "wisdom" with us. Like about how we were abusing nature, and that they could "hear" the trees calling out in grief and the grass crying in pain other gruff like that. And if they just kept it to stuff like that, it'd been bad enough. But they didn't.
They started walking into people's homes, practically uninvited. Oh, they'd ask first, oh so politely, but they'd do it in a way so formal, old-fashioned and confusing that by the time you'd figured out what they'd said you'd already let them in. And once inside they'd start giving suggestions about everything, and I mean everything. They'd tell you how to rearrange your house to make it look better, they'd tell you what to feed your cat to make her happier, they'd tell you what to teach your kids "to improve their spirits" whatever that meant. And while they'd be doing this, they'd be standing there, drop-dead gorgeous or handsome, looking at you with those ancient, wise gray eyes, expecting you to do just what you said. And if you didn't, they wouldn't do anything but look sorrowful and disappointed. But you see, they're really, really good at that looking sorrowful stuff -- they could give guilt causing lessons to my Aunt Matilda, and let me tell you, until these guys came, she was world champ in guilt!
So, most people pretty much started doing whatever the elves ask to avoid those looks. And it be fair, it's a healthier life you get in return. But it ain't much fun: all that walking and singing (those elves are real big into singing), no meat, no cigars, no whiskey, no sleeping around, no football, no drag racing, and definitely no fun. It ain't a big surprise that people are pulling up stakes and moving to other worlds to get away from those pains in the rear. Why last week, my best bud Frank had to go and fix something in his hunting shack in the North Woods (not that anyone hunts "our furred brothers and sisters" any more). While he was out there, he had the bad luck to run into one of the chief elves, meditating out in the woods. Well, before Frank could get away, he had a life and a half's worth of mystical hooey transmitted directly into his skull and now, this big, tough truck mechanic wanders around town talking to flowers and birds with a really weird smile pasted on his mug. It's enough to make a man cry into his beer (except all we got to drink now is wine, which while it has a kick, is just spoiled grape juice if you ask me), and Frank's wife is taking him away to another world to try to get him cured.
You might wonder why we don't grab our guns and baseball bats and chase these pointy-eared yahoos off of our world. The trouble is, if you try something like that, they just stand there looking noble and long-suffering and stuff and you end up feeling just like a puppy that just piddled on the rug. On the other hand, if things get bad enough and people get desperate enough, then maybe things will get down and dirty. That could be bad too, since these elf boys and girls all have long silvery swords and these curvy bows and I bet they know how to use them. Things would pretty likely get really ugly if things go that way.
So, if you guys could send some pilgrims and get rid of these elves before everyone moves away or things get real violent, we'd appreciate it. I'm going to throw this letter in the trash bin behind O'Malley's Bar -- that'll get it to you pronto, and those elves wouldn't look back there in a million years.
"cars and smokestacks"
"frowns in disapproval"
"hear the trees"
"O' Malley's Bar"
"our furred brothers and sisters"
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