Monsters of the World, Unite!

By Charles Eugene Anderson

In a world where magic and inequality intertwine, two unlikely heroes rise to challenge the status quo. Finnian Hooffellow, a witty faun philosopher, and John Everett, a dashing human revolutionary, embark on a quest to unite the oppressed magical beings of the Whisperwoods against their tyrannical elven overlords.

With a band of misfits by their side—including a mischievous goblin, a fierce pixie, and a poetic troll—Finnian and John must navigate treacherous political landscapes, forge unlikely alliances, and confront their own doubts to ignite the flames of revolution.

Blending whimsy and social commentary, "Monsters of the World, Unite!" is a genre-defying tale that will make you laugh, think, and believe in the power of unity. Join Finnian and John on a hilarious and heartwarming journey as they fight for a better world—one pun at a time.

Perfect for fans of Terry Pratchett and The Princess Bride, this delightful novel is a must-read for anyone who believes that even the most unlikely heroes can change the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mad Cow Press
• Release date: Mar 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223262268

Charles Eugene Anderson

Charles Eugene Anderson lives in Colorado. Chuck is a former teacher. He now spends his time writing, hanging out with his pup, Champ, and learning how to bake. More about Chuck at http://charleseugeneanderson.com

Book preview

The Monster Internationale

Arise ye goblins from your bondage

Arise ye trolls from pit and fen

For freedom now sounds her warhorn

And breaks the wizard's ancient pen

Away with all your false obeisances

Oppressed souls, stand up, stand forth

We’ll rewrite all the old ordinances

And turn the palace to the north

So comrades, come rally

And this last fight we'll face as one

The Internationale unites all magical kind

So comrades, come rally

Elf and dwarf now march as one

The Internationale unites all magical kind

No more fooled by cruel tradition

On tyrants only war we’ll wage

The ogre chieftains quit submission

And loose their fury off the cage

And if those despots keep on trying

To make us bend our heads and bow

They’ll hear a fierce reply in fighting

We’ll storm the castle overthrow

So comrades, come rally...

Dear Comrades,

The recent triumph of the orcish clans over the Northern Kingdoms marks a turning point in our struggle against the elven aristocracy's tyranny. Their victory, fueled by the cries of Lok'tar Ogar!, is not just a win but a call to arms for us all.

We've suffered too long under the opulence of the elves while our brethren toil in squalor. Inspired by the orcs, we see the power of unity and the strength in standing together against our oppressors. Now, we must rise, united in our diversity, to dismantle the chains of social stratification and build a world of equality for both magic and non-magic beings.

The path ahead is fraught with challenges, both from within and without. Yet, armed with the lessons of guerrilla warfare from the North and fueled by the fiery spirit of our cause, we are ready to step out of the shadows and into the light of revolution.

Let us mobilize, educate, and inspire every soul yearning for freedom. With Finnian's wit and our collective resolve, we march toward a new dawn of equality. The old structures will crumble, giving way to a future we all dare to dream of.

In solidarity and action,

John Everett (and Finnian, with his unique flair)

Witness to the Revolution

'Ah, I still recollect Comrade John Everett all those years ago stirring our hearts ablaze, silver tongue sharper than any sword in rousing the rabble. Never seen a man who could fire up a crowd of goblins, dwarves, and trolls alike as he did so effortlessly. We hung on that one's every word, be it truth or half-baked fantasy. But his passion did have its problems, too. John tended to get so caught up in his lofty visions for the cause that the practical necessities escaped him at times. Could forget to scout the terrain and plan his routes when traveling illegal tracts to convene with allies. We almost got captured more than once by some blasted oversight he made when emersed in composing rabble-rousing pamphlets! But when he spoke...oh, even the stones would weep at the world he promised. Probably still out there somewhere spreading the word as always...'

Second Witness

In a world teetering on the edge of Tuesday—an admittedly dreary day that even magic couldn't spruce up—Finnian Hooffellow, our pint-sized philosopher with the heart of a dragon and the fur of a particularly scholarly autumn, rose to the occasion. With a wit as sharp as his horns and a vision as clear as his resolve, he showed us that laughter could indeed be a revolutionary act. Under his guidance, we learned that the true essence of rebellion lies not just in overturning the old order but in the joy of building a new one where every pixie, goblin, and creature in between can finally agree on one thing: Tuesdays need a serious rebranding.

Chapter 1

Whispers of Destiny

Once upon a time, in the heart of an enchanted forest of Whisperwoods, where trees whispered secrets and magic danced in the air, a stage stood of wood and whimsy. It was upon this peculiar platform, cobbled together from planks that dreamt of grander structures, that Finnian Hooffellow, a faun of renowned wisdom yet diminutive stature, dared to step. This stage, nestled among ancient oaks and whispering willows, miraculously escaped the forest's capricious appetite as if the very essence of the woods itself paused in anticipation of Finnian's words. For Finnian was no ordinary creature; he was a philosopher, albeit pint-sized, whose voice the forest and its denizens held in eager suspense, ready to be swept away by the magic of his speech.

The crowd before him was a motley tapestry woven from every thread of the magical realm. Goblins with ears too large for their heads, fauns whose hooves tapped an impatient rhythm against the mossy floor, and elves who looked insufferably elegant and expectantly hopeful. They all gathered, a congregation thirsty for a draught of change, their varied murmurs merging into a low, anticipative hum that filled the clearing.

Finnian cleared his throat, a sound that surprisingly echoed like a herald's trumpet, demanding attention. He adjusted the collar of his waistcoat, which, despite its noticeable wear, bore the dignity of many a scholarly debate. His fur, a rich shade of autumn brown that clung to him like a well-tailored suit, seemed to shimmer slightly under the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy.

But Finnian’s horns captivated the audience, curving with the elegance of a calligrapher’s flourish. They implied a lineage that might have danced in moonlit glades or consorted with spirits of arcana. Yet, they sat atop his head with a nonchalance that suggested they were entirely unaware of their impressive heritage.

Amidst his unique features, his eyes spoke volumes without uttering a single syllable. Deep and thoughtful, they flickered with the kind of intellect to set parchments aflame with ideas alone. Those eyes scanned the crowd, reflecting a mind sharpened not on whetstones but on the weighty tomes of philosophy and the piercing quills of satire.

And as he stood there—the very picture of an academic ready to wade into battle armed with nothing but his wits—the forest seemed to lean in closer as if not wanting to miss a word of what was to come.

Finnian Hooffellow cleared his throat, an unassuming prelude to the verbal symphony that was about to ensue. My fellow denizens of dusk and dawn, he began, his voice rising like a mischievous breeze through the leaves, we stand at the precipice of change, teetering on the toes of our collective hooves, paws, and feet—although I see some of you have opted for more than the standard pair, a decision I wholeheartedly applaud for its ingenuity.

A murmur of chuckles rustled through the assembly as Finnian's eyes twinkled with the shared secret of rebellion. He continued, I've been told that revolution is no laughing matter, yet here we are, defying gravity with the fun of our aspirations. If we must be serious, let us be gravely serious about our right to giggle in the face of adversity!

Goblins exchanged knowing grins, their ears waggling with delight; fauns tapped their hooved feet in an involuntary dance of agreement; elves nodded sagely, their elegant features softening into rare smiles of amusement.

Change, proclaimed Finnian with a majestic sweep of his arms, is not the monster lurking beneath our beds, waiting to gobble up the status quo. No, my friends! Change is the most natural of our allies, the essence of the seasons themselves! Why, without it, the world would be perpetually stuck on a Tuesday afternoon, and who among us hasn't dreaded the endless slog of a Tuesday?

The crowd erupted into laughter, and the trees seemed delighted. We seek equality! Finnian declared, Not because we desire to steal the throne from those who perch upon it, but because we all deserve a fair chance to fall off it and land on a cushy pile of shared opportunity!

Nods became vigorous, and fists were pumped into the air by beings of all shapes and sizes. There was a kindling of hope in the eyes of the goblins, who had long perfected the art of stealing what they believed was rightly theirs—a fair shake at life. With their woodland wisdom, the fauns swayed with renewed purpose, their spirits encouraged by the possibility of harmony. And the elves, often aloof but now fully engaged, allowed the seeds of unity to take root in their ancient hearts.

Let us then, Finnian concluded with an orator's crescendo, march forward, not as a motley crew of malcontents, but as a phalanx of philosophers, a brigade of bards, a congregation of comrades-in-arms—figuratively speaking, of course, since actual arms are notoriously difficult to come by in congregations.

As laughter mingled with applause, the enchanted forest buzzed with the enthusiasm of newfound camaraderie. A goblin youngster turned to an elder elf and whispered, I didn't know speeches could be fun. The elf replied, with a twinkle of surprise in his eye, Nor did I, young one. Nor did I.

And so, amidst the whimsy of words and the merriment of their cause, the seeds of revolution took root, watered by the sheer audacity of hope and the fertile soil of humor.

Having no regard for the gravity of the situation, the wind played with John Everett's silver-white hair as if it were just another day at the festival of life. He stood tall and firm, his green eyes fixing each passerby with a look that spoke of trouble—a fine vintage, aged in oak barrels of dissent and bottled with a cork of defiance.

Brothers and sisters, John cried out, his voice ringing across the cobblestone square like a bell tolling for change, we are not simply cogs in their gilded clockwork! We are the timekeepers of our destiny!

A murmur rolled through the crowd, a prelude to the symphony of protest they were about to orchestrate. The city, usually bustling with the commerce of conveniences and the exchange of pleasantries, now thrummed with the heartbeat of rebellion.

But there was an oppressive note in the air, too—a sour chord that clashed with the melody of uprising. Elven guards, clad in uniforms as sharp as their ears and eyes, patrolled the streets. Their presence was as subtle as a dragon in a dollhouse, casting long shadows over the fearful faces of the common folk who hurried about their business like mice in a cat's domain.

Look at them, John gestured dramatically towards the guards, strutting about as though the streets were paved with their arrogance. But remember, even the most self-important peacock is still, at its core, a bird destined for someone's pot!

Laughter flitted through the crowd, disarming the tension and plucking at the strings of camaraderie. It was humor, that ancient and secret weapon that poked fun at power and made light of the darkness looming over them.

Let us stand together! John declared, his words painting pictures of a future where the yoke of elven oppression was but a tale to tell one's grandchildren. A future where every man, woman, and child can walk these streets free from the shadow of tyranny!

The people around him nodded, their spirits buoyed by the ludicrousness of hope—a concept so bold and foolish that it might just work. And somewhere, tucked in the folds of John’s cloak, a letter waited with the promise of an alliance, a call to arms—though, naturally, of the symbolic sort since actual weaponry was frowned upon in polite revolutionary circles.

Yes, the city of Silverglad was a stage. The citizens were players, and John? He was the director of this farcical play, the final act of which had yet to be written. But oh, what a grand finale it promised to be!

Friends, comrades, compatriots! John's voice cut through the tense air like a sword through a particularly oppressive fog. He stood atop a barrel, which wobbled precariously under his weight. His silver-white hair danced in the wind, a flag of rebellion.

Are we to be trampled underfoot like so much undergrowth in the path of an elven parade? he asked with a sly grin, eliciting a murmur of agreement from the assembled crowd. Or are we to stand up and declare that we have had quite enough of being the grass?

Enough of being grass! someone shouted back, and others picked up the chant, their voices growing into a boisterous crescendo.

Indeed! John cried out, pumping a fist into the air as if to puncture the heavens with human determination. Let us be... I don't know, dandelions! Pesky, resilient, and impossible to get rid of!

The elven guards, resplendent in their uniformity and glinting armor, looked on with sneers painted elegantly upon their fair faces. They twirled their batons with the kind of flair that suggested they spent more time in front of mirrors practicing than actually policing. It was an air of nonchalance that would soon come to be as misplaced as a tutu on a troll.

Everett, cease this folly at once! one guard commanded, stepping forward with the confidence of one who has never been on the receiving end of a rotten tomato.

Cease? But we've only just begun our outdoor theatre! John replied with feigned shock while a protester lobbed said vegetable—or was it a fruit?—at the guard's head with impeccable aim.

Art thou suggesting we deny these good people the most basic right to public entertainment? John called out as another tomato made its squishy mark, leaving a streak of red down the guard's cheek. I daresay, sir, your heartlessness knows no bounds!

Enough of this! the guard bellowed, wiping the remnants of rebellious produce from his face. Arrest him!

But the crowd was a sea now, waves of anger crashing against the shore of oppression. John leaped from his barrel with the skill of a cat—or perhaps a slightly overweight squirrel—and landed amidst his fellow protesters. The elven guards moved in, batons raised but entangled in a web of banners and the surprisingly firm grip of elderly ladies who had mastered the art of knitting and protest simultaneously.

Stand firm, my friends! John yelled over the din, ducking as another tomato sailed overhead. Today, we claim not just the streets but the very narrative of our future!

Narrative! an old man echoed, shaking his cane with such vigor that it could have been mistaken for an ancient relic summoning a storm. Take back the narrative!

Indeed! John declared, his green eyes sparkling with mischief and defiance. We shall write our own story; I assure you, it will not be short!

And with that, the clash continued a cacophony of laughter, shouts, and the occasional pastry thrown into the fray—a sweet touch to an otherwise sour confrontation. It was a dance choreographed by the desire for change and set to the music of revolution, where every step, trip, and slip was part of the grand performance.

As John's voice soared over the cobbled streets, ricocheting off the city walls and into the hearts of his followers, a different kind of uprising was taking root in the shadow-dappled glades of the enchanted forest. Finnian Hooffellow, perched precariously atop a stump fashioned into a makeshift podium, cleared his throat and adjusted his ill-fitting vine-woven waistcoat—a sartorial concession to public speaking.

Friends, fauns, country beasts, he began, his voice smooth as a pebble polished by centuries of gentle streams, we are gathered here not just because the acorn buffet ran out—though I must admit it was a draw—but because we yearn for a world where no creature is denied their share of the forest's bounty due to the size of their horns or the glow of their eyes!

A murmur of agreement rustled through the leaves like a well-mannered breeze at an autumnal tea party. The goblins, notorious for their love of a good brawl—and even better mischief—winked at each other, their enthusiasm bubbling like a cauldron on the eve of mayhem.

Meanwhile, back in the city, John's silver-white hair had taken on the appearance of a revolutionary banner, waving in the wind as he vaulted over a crate of cabbages that had inexplicably become part of the protest's arsenal. His green eyes, alight with the fire of defiance, locked with those of an elven guard whose armor seemed to shrink under the intensity of the gaze.

Change! John roared, brandishing a cabbage like a wand. It's not just for pockets anymore!

The crowd erupted into cheers, hurling vegetables and slogans with equal enthusiasm at their oppressors, who were beginning to realize that this was not, in fact, the orderly queue they had been told to disperse.

Back in the forest, Finnian paced the stage, his hooves clicking rhythmically as he wove his tale of a united magical front. Think about it, he mused aloud, a goblin, a faun, and an elf walk into a tavern—not to start a brawl or a joke, but to discuss healthcare reform!

The elves in the audience, long the butt of many such jokes, exchanged surprised glances before chuckling, their laughter mingling with the chortles of fauns and the snickers of goblins. It was the sound of barriers crumbling, the prelude to alliances forming.

Equality, my friends, is no fantasy! Finnian declared, his words painting pictures of a future bright as fairy lights at a midnight feast. It is as real as the ground beneath our hooves, claws, and...whatever delightful appendage you possess!

The call for change reverberated in the forest and the city, echoing from stone and bark alike. Those who had once stood on the sidelines were drawn into the whirlpool of rebellion, captivated by the twin beacons of Finnian's wit and John's enthusiasm.

Join us! they both implored, though leagues apart, their voices intertwining in the ether of shared purpose. And join them they did, creatures and humans alike, swelling the ranks of the discontented until the air seemed charged with the promise of transformation.

Who knew revolution could be so invigorating? a young faun whispered to her neighbor, a sentiment echoed by a street urchin as he ducked beneath a pastry projectile. I feel like I could overthrow a government or run a marathon—whichever comes first!

And so, the momentum grew with Finnian's clever turn of phrase and every rousing cry from John. It was a force more potent than magic, more enduring than the oldest spells: the unstoppable surge of hope.

As Finnian's speech's echoes dissolved among the enchanted forest's whispering leaves, a curious squirrel scampered with a crumpled leaf in its paws. Not your average leaf, mind you—for upon it was written a message in an elegant, flowing script that no woodland creature could've penned. Finnian, still basking in the afterglow of his rousing oration, watched with bemusement as the squirrel approached him with all the pomp and circumstance of a royal courier.

Is this for me? Finnian asked, plucking the leaf from the critter's grasp. His eyes scanned the verdant parchment. A letter? How quaintly archaic.

Chitter, replied the squirrel, which, loosely translated from Squirrel to Common Tongue, meant, I'm just doing my job, sir.

Ah, Finnian mused aloud, reading the message. 'Unite with the human John Everett, whose silver hair outshines moonlight on a dewdrop. Together, lead the revolution against elven tyranny.' Hmm, 'dewdrop'—how poetic. He chuckled, folding the leaf with care. "Seems I'm off to make