The Bitterists and the Beautiful were not mistaken.

The troll was indeed crying.

He felt despair.

Right to his core.

He hated himself. He hated the Bitterists and the Beautiful, and their constant taunts. The noise. The clamour. The cheap fucking whisky they brought him.

He threw the bottle down in contempt.

B**S, all of them.

As the troll nursed his misery, he found himself thinking about Ikol, a giant from the land of Honestists and Banterers.

Ikol was, by all accounts, a little bit – way-hey. Liked the craic. Stepping on stuff. Egos mainly.

The troll wouldn’t call Ikol a friend as such – they’d never met for a start – he knew him only by reputation and hearsay. Which was everything.

He’d often heard Ikol’s name mentioned by the Beautiful and the Bitterists when they congregated on the bridge above him each day.

Ikol this, Ikol that. Ikol the effin other.

But, truth be told, the troll felt lonely. Under the bridge on his own. He was sick of the Beautiful and the Bitterists and the easy, casual fun they made of him. Worse than that, they bored him.

To hell with them. Let them find their truth elsewhere, he muttered, hauling himself on to his unsteady feet.

He swore, farted. And staggered out from under the bridge, shading his eyes from the bright sunshine.

And off he ambled, down the stream. In search of Ikol and the far distant lands of the Honestists and Banterers.

That night, the Bitterists and the Beautiful made their way to the bridge with their whisky, fags and biscuits, eager for the troll’s invective. They whispered eagerly, Trollie? Oh Trollie? - but there was no reply.

The Bitterists and Beautiful were bereft. Their wailing and remorseful cries could be heard throughout their land.

Trollie come back! They wailed, We love you. Trollieeeee…

The troll didn’t even turn round. Not once.

But stuck up two fingers behind his back as he made his way down stream.

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