Correspondence to the GCC

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. I remember a time we lived with respect for our noise ordinance and I could go out into my backyard without finding a waist-high pile of ale cans and a pack of teenage dragons loitering in my big oak tree spitting out fire. I have had it. Enough is enough.

Mr. Nutmusk, the reason I’m writing to you and the rest of the Gnome Community Council is because I value just that – community. I remember when it was safe to plop a Phrygian cap on my children and send them to school or out to play with the neighborhood kids. Now, I’m afraid to let them leave the cottage. We used to have barbecues and block parties, and the scent of corn and cooked roots would swim through the air. I could sit down with the people of my neighborhood and sip on a cold glass of mead or spiced gin, but no longer.

Now, one of many scents unable to escape my senses is that of burning flesh. Almost every night, I hear my children talk feverishly as to whether or not it's the flesh of gnome. I’ve had to assure them, Mr. Nutmusk, that it must be dwarves or elves and not the Knobblers who moved out last month and don’t seem to be returning my letters. Please don’t let me be wrong about this, Mr. Nutmusk.

I’m not blind. I understand the appeal. Rather than the wet, drafty caves they used to reside in, they would prefer to live in handcrafted homes built with love and warmth. Homes they can call ‘rustic’ or ‘vintage’ or whatever word that currently means in fashion. What they don’t understand is what these homes and these lands mean to our culture and to our heritage – the efforts and traditions that our forefathers took and instilled to create a beautiful life for generations of gnomes, and even more yet born. Instead, I see them routinely urinating on the statue of my great great grandfather in the town square. No matter how hard I scrub, I cannot manage to get the unique and pungent odor of dragon piss from his face.

I’m also not blind to the appeal they have to you, Mr. Nutmusk. With dragons come their hoards. Gold, treasure and antiquities beyond measure. You see them as a way to bring money and business into the valley, attract condo developers, and inflate the prices of your homes so much that you and your families will be able to live comfortably for years to come. However, the grand flaw in your plan, Mr. Nutmusk, is that dragons don’t spend their hoards – they grow them.

The packs of dragons enclosing us will bleed this land dry. They will make your wealth their own, by force and by fire. Though today they may be amiable, know it is only because you serve a function. You are merely a rung on the ladder to total control over not just this land, but all lands – they will step on you. They will crush you, everyone, and everything you care about. You will die surrounded by scorched earth and the bones and ashes of your loved ones.

Also, if you know of any good recommendations for chemicals or cleaners that make hearty work of dragon urine, please let me know. I’m aware that this is far from the first statue or public shrine to do battle with it, so perhaps you have come across something I have yet to discover. I have gone through all of the generic brands and nothing seems to remove the stinging smell that has made a home in my nostrils. It never leaves me. I’m telling you, I smell it in my dreams, Mr. Nutmusk. My dreams.

Regardless, enough is enough. It is my intention, with the help of the Gnome Community Council, to rid our valley of these dragons and return to a time of prosperity, love, and piss-free monuments.

Please let me know what further actions would be required of me at this time. I look forward to our continued correspondence.

Sincerely,

Humphrey Diggerall