Witches and Dwarves

I’m glad to hear that the British police are confiscating wands and broomsticks that visitors are trying to smuggle into the Houses of Parliament. There’s no telling what the honourable members might do after being hexed by a politically active witch. They already behave like utter buffoons in the debating chamber, venting amid a chorus of farmyard noises. If a witch managed to put a pagan spell on them, the midget who sits in the Speaker’s chair might not be safe. Uglier creatures than he have been molested by the goatish mob. 

Most of the witches I knew in my circus days were wholly apolitical, which I thought was a very good thing. Politics is a dirty game which would befoul and corrupt the spiritual values of the Spooky Sisterhood. The witches I met were convinced I had supernatural powers, and invited me to their outdoor naked dancing events (as an observer). 

“My dear witchy ladies,” I said to them. “Before I accept your gracious invitation, I must disabuse you of the notion that I am a hairy wizard. I regret to say that I have no magical benediction to bestow upon your sacred coven.” 

“Come along anyway,” they replied. “You can scare off the peeping toms.” 

This was a service I was more than happy to provide. The naked witch is a sublime metaphysical entity that should never be ogled by perverts and degenerates. Her succulent flesh is a sacrament for the forest demigods, not an aid to self-abuse. 

My relationship with the circus dwarves was much less cosy. People thought they disliked me for tossing them in my act, but most of them thoroughly enjoyed sailing through the air with their little limbs akimbo. In truth, they resented me for being the star of the show. Dwarves are jealous by nature and would rather forgo the pleasures of unaided flight than see a rival win acclaim. 

A recent episode of dwarfish rascality has occurred in Argentina, where the farmers of Catamarca are blaming a marauding leprechaun for ruining their harvests. 

“It was short like a dwarf and I’ve seen it and spoken to it,” said Cosimus Behana. “I wasn’t drunk or drugged – we are really cursed.” 

This craven peasant needs a kick in the seat of his pants. A farmer who fatalistically allows a dwarf to commit mischiefs on his land is a disgrace to his profession. One has to wonder what he said to the creature when he spoke to it. It wouldn’t surprise me if he offered to trim its beard and polish its hobnailed boots.

If this bothersome imp is really causing their crops to fail, the farmers could easily make him desist with a bit of old-fashioned bribery. In my experience, a dwarf will suspend any vendetta he is pursuing if you offer him beer and prostitutes. With any luck, the hookers will take him away when he’s drunk and sell him on the open market as a brothel mascot. I’ve yet to meet the dwarf who could outfox a call girl. 

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