Just Another Day in Suburbia

By Liz Pierce and Elizabeth Ann Pierce

Forest Glen, Pennsylvania. A peaceful suburban neighborhood where nothing unusual ever happened – until the day Masaman the Troll moved out from under his bridge and bought the old fixer-upper on Oak Tree Lane.

Now goblins swarm the neighbor's front porch and kitchen windowsill in search of freshly baked pies and cookies; a cat-food eating zombie canvasses the residents, looking for landscaping and interior decorating opportunities; and a dwarf takes time out from Poker Night to investigate the rash of burglaries that suddenly plague the neighborhood.

And the Neighborhood Watch has no idea who it should be watching.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Camden Park Press
• Release date: Jun 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223507789

Book preview

Just Another Day in Suburbia

Liz Pierce

(Elizabeth Ann Pierce)

A picture containing drawing Description automatically generated

Camden Park Press

I THOUGHT TROLLS TURNED to stone in the sunshine.

Nah. That’s just a story troll parents told their children to keep them from wandering too far from home and slipping into your world by accident.

Did it work?

Usually.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: A Respectable Bridge

Chapter 2: It Seemed Like a Good Idea

Chapter 3: Dead to Rights

Chapter 4: Attention Deficit...Oooh! Shiny!

Chapter 5: Welcome to the Neighborhood

Chapter 6: These Boots

Chapter 7: The Usual Suspects

Chapter 8: We’ve Got a Problem

Chapter 9: Gentlemen, Take Your Corners

Chapter 10: All That Glitters

Chapter 11: Just Like Mama Used to Make

Chapter 12: The Meeting Will Now Come to Order

Chapter 13: Guilty Until Proven Otherwise

Chapter 14: Shades of Gray

Chapter 15: Need to Know

Chapter 16: I Spy, With My Little Eye

Chapter 17: With Friends Like These

Chapter 18: Marley’s Ghost

Chapter 19: Jailbreak

Chapter 20: In Mint Condition

Chapter 21: The Squeaky Wheel

Chapter 22: A Silhouette in the Glass

Chapter 1: A Respectable Bridge

Masaman was beginning to regret saving Fred Fernley’s life.

Still, as a city-dwelling troll, and long-time resident of Philadelphia’s 34th Street Under-Bridge (at the base of the South Pier footing, just across the river from the University of Pennsylvania’s baseball diamond), saving the guy’s life had been less a humanitarian gesture, and more a matter of practicality.

As soon as he saw the would-be jumper clumsily pulling himself onto the railing on that sweltering afternoon in late June, Masaman knew that it just wouldn’t do to have a dead body wash up under his bridge.

Even after ten years of being out in the open, public sentiment was still a little iffy when it came to trolls.

So he’d pulled himself up to his full ten-and-a-half foot height, took a deep breath, and let out a huge bellow, blasting the poor jumper off the railing and back into the pedestrian walkway.

He then scrambled up the side of the pier, King-Kong-style, bringing his huge head just even with the railing.

The jumper had gotten his wind back, and was getting to his feet. When he picked up his briefcase and reached for the railing a second time, Masaman growled.

That got the guy’s attention. He looked over, and his eyes grew wide when he saw the troll’s greenish-brown face only a few feet away, lips curled back in a tooth-bearing snarl. For added effect, Masaman raised his hackles, the deep green leathery spikes rising slowly like a bird’s crest to tower a foot and a half above his massive head.

He briefly considered allowing a bit of drool to drip down around his lower tusks, but discarded the idea as overkill.

No jumping allowed here, Masaman said, his voice low and rumbling, not unlike the sound of a passing semi. This is a respectable bridge. We don’t tolerate that kind of nonsense. He gestured with a nod of his head, leathery hackles swaying with the movement. You really wanna jump, go downriver. There’s plenty of bridges in the industrial sector where you can jump without bothering anyone.

The jumper just stood there, gawking, his mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish for a moment before any sound finally came out of it.

I... I’m sorry, he stammered. I didn’t know... didn’t know anyone... anyone lived here.

Yeah, well look around before you pick your next jump spot, Masaman said. No telling whose living room you’re about to splatter yourself all over.  He reached up with his free hand and scratched behind an ear. Why do you want to jump, anyway? It can’t be that bad.

I’ve lost everything, said the jumper.

Masaman had heard that story before – accompanied by the same dejected tone of voice and weary slump to the shoulders.

"I don’t have anything, said Masaman, his voice softening to a more conversational tone. He relaxed his hackles, letting the deep green spikey crest lie hair-like along the back of his head in an effort to appear less menacing. The jumper was obviously worked-up enough as it was. But you don’t see me jumping. Or any of my neighbors, either. Not a penny to their names, most of them."

He stopped talking as a stray breeze caught his attention. He sniffed the air, sifting through the scents of diesel fumes drifting off the roadway and brackish water swirling around the base of the bridge, to discover the faint scorch of an overcooked curry wafting up from below.

Gotta go, Masaman said abruptly. My supper’s starting to burn. Want my advice? Re-think the jumping thing. Just my opinion, but that’s probably not your only option. With that, he nodded to the jumper and climbed down the pier.

He had a bubbling pot of billy goat curry that needed rescuing.

That was three days ago.

The jumper – whose name turned out to be Fred Fernley – had taken Masaman’s advice and changed his mind about jumping.

But instead of going back to wherever he’d come from, Fred Fernley had scavenged a beat-up old washing-machine box and tattered blanket, and moved into the homeless colony at the foot of Masaman’s bridge.

As if it wasn’t already crowded enough under there.

There had only been a handful of wretched folk living under the 34th Street Bridge when Masaman stepped out of the shadows of the Faerie Realm, ten years before, and claimed his space in the Real World.

Some of the residents fled in terror, preferring to take their chances elsewhere rather than share space with a troll. But a few had remained. Eventually, as they grew more accustomed to him, they realized that Masaman’s presence under the bridge was actually to their benefit – the troll was a good neighbor, he kept the rodent population down and shared his garden space, but otherwise mostly kept to himself. Most importantly, he absolutely refused to put up with any sort of crime or violence under his bridge.

Steal from another resident, Masaman would shake you down to recover the stolen goods, then, quite literally, kick you across the river. Harm another resident, and you’d quickly find a ten and a half-foot troll looming menacingly over you, hackles raised, fists clenched, fury in his eyes.

Word got around Philadelphia’s homeless population. The 34th Street Under-Bridge wasn’t the Ritz, but it was safe.

Over time, the ramshackle collection of makeshift cardboard-and-canvas dwellings had become a neighborhood of sorts. A neighborhood with a shared vegetable garden and even a co-op daycare tucked safely under the sheltering overhang of the bridge, near the troll’s personal spot. A neighborhood with privvys provided by a charitable organization, a bus stop with a covered bench, and a shared mailbox.

A neighborhood where people swept their dirt paths with pride, threw out garbage that couldn’t be recycled into anything useful or burned as fuel, and made the best of living in cardboard shanties instead of more conventional homes. A neighborhood that, at nearly thirty families, was outgrowing the limited wedge of space between the river and the road.

Masaman was constantly having to chase newcomers out of his space – the old-timers knew better than to encroach on the troll’s territory – but Fred Fernley didn’t seem to get it. He’d parked his washing-machine box on top of the large, flat rock that was Masaman’s Sitting Stone, his favorite spot for unwinding after a long day being cooped up in his taxi, reading a comic book, listening to the baseball games being played across the river, enjoying his dinner, or play poker with his buddies when it was his turn to host their weekly poker night.

For all intents and purposes, Fernley had parked his box in the middle of Masaman’s living room.

Masaman asked him to leave several times, but to no avail. Fernley just smiled, nodded politely, and settled himself in like he intended to stay there forever.

Two evenings in a row, Masaman had tossed the box aside when Fernley wasn’t looking; but each morning he woke to find it back on top of his rock, with Fernley snoring away inside.

On the morning of the third day, he’d picked up the box – with Fernley in it – and dropped it in an empty spot right on the river’s edge. It was a good enough spot, not so close that it would to absorb any of the fishy-smelling water, and far enough from his rock that he hoped Fernley would take the hint. Fernley never stirred, and Masaman stomped away grouchily toward his taxi.

Look, Fernley— Masaman began later that afternoon. He’d just come back from work and wanted nothing more than to stretch out on his rock and watch the boats and river birds float by for a while before fixing his supper.

But Fred Fernley and his box were on his rock.

Again.

Call me Fred, Fernley said. He was staring out at the river, tossing pebbles into the water.

I’m not going to call you ‘Fred’,’ replied Masaman. Because if I start calling you ‘Fred,’ people will start thinking that we’re friends, which we’re not.

Whatever you say, Fernley said.

"As I was saying, Fernley, Masaman continued, I’m not the sort of troll to hold with the whole ‘grind your bones to make my bread’ sort of nonsense, but after squishing myself into a taxicab and driving around town since before dawn, I just want to come home and relax, and you’re in my spot."

You lied to me, said Fernley, tossing another pebble.

And I’ve tried to be nice to you, Masaman continued, because of that whole jumping-off-the-bridge thing, but... What do you mean I lied to you? When? About what?

You said you didn’t have anything, Fernley said.

I don’t, replied Masaman, shoving the washing-machine box aside as he plunked himself down on the rock. It felt good to stretch his legs out.

You have a car, Fernley said.

My old Mini? Masaman asked. In case you hadn’t noticed, it has a big ‘Taxi’ sign on the roof. I like to eat. No car, no job. No job, no curry.

Right. But why a taxi? You’re a big guy – you could probably get a really great job as a bodyguard or a bouncer or in construction.

Masaman sighed. How many times had he had this conversation? Why don’t all humans have the same professions? he asked.

Fernley shrugged. We have different interests.

Well, so do trolls, Masaman said, unlacing the thong on his leather vest. I don’t happen to have any interest in being either a bouncer or a builder. I do like to drive.

Which reminds me, Fernley said. How on Earth do you fit into that tiny little car anyway? You’re what – ten feet tall?

Ten and a half, Masaman corrected him. And compressing ourselves down to fit into smallish spaces is a trollish thing. No big deal.

And your clothes shrink with you?

Yeah.

How is that possible? asked Fernley.

Like I said, it’s a trollish thing. Not something I can explain. But it wouldn’t really be very practical if we kept shrinking or growing out of our clothes, or had to constantly carry around a variety of size pants to suit every possible need, now would it?

So can you shrink yourself down to the size of a mouse?

Masaman waved away the question. Nah, he said. I don’t know where you humans get your silly ideas. We can change our height, but not our mass. Shoving the mass of a ten or eleven foot troll into a three-inch package is physically impossible. Do the math.

"How small can you make yourself?" Fernley asked.

Me? Oh, down to about half my normal size, I guess, Masaman replied. "Maybe smaller if I tried really hard, but I’ve never had a good reason to. Besides, the more you compress, the harder it is to maintain the new size. And the more you want to stretch out to full size afterward, like at the end of a long day in a tiny taxicab."

Masaman pulled off his vest and tossed it aside, looking pointedly down at Fernley sitting next to him.

I take your meaning, Fernley said, scooting over to give Masaman a little more room. "Still, you’ve proved my point. You have a car and a job. I had to sell my car to pay the bills, and I lost my job, too."

Masaman shrugged. Well, I didn’t think of it as lying to you. I was trying to motivate you. Inspire you. Keep you from jumping off the bridge. He unlatched the buckles on his huge boots, then pulled the boots off and dropped them by his vest.

Why? Fernley asked after a minute. Why do you care? You’re a troll—

Hey, trolls are people, too, said Masaman with a warning look at Fernley. Or are you one of those who think the Faerie-Folk should have stayed Underground?

It was Fernley’s turn to shrug. I used to, he said. I’m changing my mind. You saved my life. The goblins over by the barricade have been sharing their food with me – and I heard someone say that you and a couple of dwarves dug the rocks out of the sunny spot where the garden is planted. I won’t say I’m not uncomfortable mixing with your kind, but I’m trying to push past the stereotypes.

Masaman nodded in approval. Good for you. So to get back to the point, would you mind keeping your box off of my rock?

I’ll try to remember.

You do that.

Masaman leaned back, putting his hands under his head to cushion it. He was lying cross-wise on the Sitting Stone, head just at the far edge, legs dangling off the other side, the cool of the stone radiating through the folds of his loose burlap shirt and easing the tension in his lower back and shoulders.

And you’ve got treasure. Fernley said after a few minutes.

Now you’re getting personal, Masaman said. He didn’t move, didn’t even open his eyes, but there was a hint of a growl to his voice.

Fernley ignored it.

"All that bling you wear. You don’t seem like the kind of troll to go in for cheap silver or electroplate. I’m betting it’s real," Fernley said.

Your point?

You’ve got treasure. More than what you wear, I’d bet. Probably buried under this rock, which is why you guard it so closely, is my guess.

That’s a good guess, Masaman said. Wrong. But good. And I suppose you’re the one who’s been digging around here while I’ve been away during the day? He turned his head to look at Fernley. Right?

Maybe, acknowledged Fernley. No law against digging.

No law against digging, Masaman agreed. Let me know if you find anything.

Fernley said nothing.

Masaman chuckled, a low rumble that reverberated through the homeless camp before fading into the traffic noise from the bridge above. He lay there for several minutes, listening to the water lapping at the river’s edge, the occasional ‘plunk’ as Fernley continued tossing pebbles into the water.

So Fernley was after his treasure.

Not surprising really. At one time or another, just about every other resident of the 34th Street Under-Bridge had made the assumption that the troll had treasure, and tried to figure out where he hid it.

Like he would ever leave his treasure lying around unguarded.

Silly humans. Too stupid to know how stupid it was to try to steal from a troll.

Still, he had to admit that Fernley’s plan was more brazen than most. Trying to befriend him into revealing his secret was definitely a new approach. He had to give Fernley credit for that much.

A bunch of pigeons squabbling overhead caught his attention. It sounded like another one had found its way into his trap, and, like its companions, couldn’t figure out how to escape.

Masaman squinted to see the trap. A troll’s eyesight isn’t the greatest, and the evening shadows under the bridge made it difficult to see how many pigeons he’d caught this time. Enough for dinner, that much was obvious. He’d let the rest go – it was easy enough to catch them again another day.

They never learned.

You lied to me, too, you know, he said, closing his eyes.

The rhythmic ‘plunk-plunk’ of Fernley’s pebble-tossing stopped.

What makes you say that? Fernley finally asked.

You said you lost everything, Masaman said.

I did.

I don’t know, Masaman said. You keep that briefcase pretty close to you. Must be something in it you’re not ready to part with. He cracked an eyelid and stole a glance at Fernley.

Fernley’s shoulders had slumped, and he was running the pebbles back and forth from hand to hand. He was silent for a long moment before he spoke, never looking over at the troll.

Some photographs, old letters. Nothing of value. Mostly just bills I can’t pay anymore. And the deed to my last house, he said dejectedly.

Masaman sat up. How many houses did you have? he asked.

Seven, was Fernley’s morose reply.

So if you have a house, why are you living here? Masaman asked, scratching his head. "I don’t understand. Under the bridge is the place for people who are home-less, not those who still have a home."

They were investment properties, Fernley said. You can’t live in an investment property.

Oh, said Masaman. I didn’t know. Where’d you learn that?

Infomercial.

Masaman nodded sagely. Ah. I see, he said. He had no idea what Fernley was talking about. So why don’t you sell it?

Bad market, said Fernley. No one wants to buy a fixer-upper.

So fix it up, and then sell it, said Masaman.

"I did fix it up."

Masaman was getting confused. He considered himself to be reasonably intelligent. A working-class troll with an appreciation of the Real World and a basic understanding of the way things worked. But he’d spent a long, hot day driving the taxi around town, hadn’t been able to stretch out properly, and hadn’t had dinner yet.

Or maybe Fernley just wasn’t making sense.

Let me see if I’ve got this straight, he said. You bought the house – a fixer upper – and fixed it up, and it’s still a fixer-upper. Right?

Right

And now no one wants to buy it?

Right again.

Why not?

Fernley jumped up and started to stomp away, then he came back and grabbed his briefcase out of the washing-machine box. "Okay, so I’m really bad at the whole ‘fixing up’ thing, he said clutching the briefcase to his chest. I only know what the ‘how-to’ books and hardware store guys told me, which clearly wasn’t enough. When I was done fixing it up, the house appraised for less than I bought it for in the first place. Same with the others. I sold them all at huge losses, but no one wants to buy this last one. Now I can’t pay my bills, and in two days, the court will officially declare me bankrupt. Satisfied?"

Fernley stomped off, his feet crunching loudly on the gravel under the bridge. Masaman watched him for a minute, then called after him.

Hey, Fernley. Where you going?

Downriver, Fernley shouted back.

Masaman shook his head. He was going to regret his next words, he knew, but he said them anyway.

If you change your mind, I think I’ve caught enough pigeons for two.

⬧

I have to say, said Fernley, as he licked the remains of a roasted pigeon off his fingers. That I never expected I would ever share a meal with a troll.

Think nothing of it, said Masaman.  There were plenty of pigeons.

How can I repay you? asked Fernley.

Keep your box off my rock, replied Masaman.

Fernley was quiet for a minute before he spoke. Maybe I can do better than that, he said finally.

How’s that? Masaman said. He’d gathered up all of the pigeon bones and set them out to dry. He’d grind them into a fine bone-meal in a day or two.

It took a lot of pigeon bones to make a decent batch of biscuits.

Do better how? Masaman said, looking at Fernley.

Fernley had opened his briefcase and was rummaging through its contents. He finally found what he was looking for, and pulled a thick sheaf of papers out, holding them up triumphantly.

"I’ll sell you my house! he crowed. At a deep discount, of course."

Masaman sat down hard. Of all the things Fernley might have said, he had not expected that. What do I need with a house?

It would be perfect for you, Fernley said. He had jumped up and was nearly dancing on the rock in his excitement. It’s in a great old neighborhood, just north of town – very peaceful, lots of trees. Vaulted ceilings in the living room and kitchen. A big backyard. The bank will let you have it for a song, just so they don’t have to deal with another foreclosure. The account manager has already told me as much. I’ve got all the papers right here, just waiting for the right buyer—

Masaman repeated his question more slowly – and a little more loudly. "What do I need with a house?"

Fernley stopped dancing and just stared at the troll.

You’re joking, right? he said, looking from Masaman to the cluster of cardboard shanties that spread out beyond him.

Masaman shook his big head. Not really. No, he replied.

It’s the American dream.

Chapter 2: It Seemed Like a Good Idea

About thirty years before, when the Faerie Folk decided they’d lived in the shadows and hidden places of the world (which collectively came to be known as the Underground) long enough, they decided to send the Dwarves out first.

After all, they reasoned, humans came in a variety of sizes, shapes, and colors. The Dwarves would be able to blend in with the existing human society, virtually unnoticed. Influence public opinion. Pave the way for the rest of the Faerie Folk to come out into the open.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

No one took into account the Dwarves’ complete lack of public relations skills, their frequently less-than-charming dispositions, or their utter inability to blend in at social gatherings.

Or the havoc that the sudden appearance of diminutive houses, shops, taverns, even whole villages – and their occupants – in the spaces between the full-sized versions of same might have on the human population.

It was something of a mess.

⬧

The younger Dwarves adapted more readily than their elders.

At a youthful seventy-five, Pinkerton was among the younger set to venture into the Real World. He was curious about this strange, new place, and naturally inquisitive.

It turned out that he was also very good at figuring things out, and Ask Pinkerton quickly became a watchword among the local dwarvish population. If Pinkerton didn’t know the answer, he’d soon find it.

For a small fee, of course.

And he didn’t restrict his answer-giving to dwarves. Pinkerton was just as happy to talk to humans and poke his bulbous nose into their affairs, too.

For a slightly larger fee.

By the end of his first year in the human world, Pinkerton had bought a fedora and a couple of fashionable pin-striped, double-breasted suits that he paired with colorful waistcoats in traditional dwarvish patterns. By the end of his second year, he had earned his Private Investigator license – the first Dwarf in the country to achieve that distinction. And early in his third year, he set up shop in a small office at the back of Grady’s Bar & Grill, on the south side of Philadelphia.

Young Grady had just inherited the Bar from his father, and he and Pinkerton saw the arrangement as mutually beneficial: Pinkerton’s business brought additional traffic to the Bar, and the Bar was close enough to Pinkerton’s office to keep his prodigious dwarvish thirst suitably quenched. Add to that a limited – but excellent – evening dinner menu, which Pinkerton had long ago committed to memory and frequently preferred over his own cooking, and the arrangement was even more suitable.

A few years later, when the apartment directly above the bar became available, Grady offered it to Pinkerton. The price was right, and Pinkerton couldn’t beat the commute; he’d moved in immediately, and had lived above the bar ever since.

Even now, after nearly twenty years, he was still the only dwarvish Private Investigator in the state of Pennsylvania. And he still favored fedoras, double-breasted suits, colorfully patterned waistcoats, and trenchcoats, with the collar turned up just-so when the weather was chill.

So why do you suppose... Pinkerton said to Grady one afternoon, as he accepted a tumbler of Scotch from his now middle-aged bartender-landlord. His thick, knob-knuckled fingers closed around the glass allowing him to check the level of the Scotch. Three fingers. Good. Grady could be stingy sometimes, if he thought the dwarf wasn’t paying attention.

Pinkerton smoothed his neatly trimmed beard, cleared his throat in an attempt to lower its pitch a note or two, and began again. Why do you suppose I’ve never seen the shadow of a tall, gorgeous babe outlined in the glass on my office door?

You watch too many old movies, Pinkerton, replied Grady with a chuckle.

They have the best dialog, Pinkerton replied with a shrug. "But, hell, I haven’t seen a hulking thug or even the menacing outline of a revolver in a long time. I had the window designed especially for that sort of thing.