R-six fourty-5 Troll

You are a miserable little man, 6:45 conductor. You make no attempt at even being civil to your riders. Most people are not enthused at this hour nor are they stoked about having to ride SEPTA at all and the only thing you have to add to our morning is a pudgy sour face.

I have no patients for your actions and that fact has actually moved me to wake up and put pen to paper.

Taking a ticket is a chore for you. It reminds me of the manner in which children react to bussing their dishes after dinner. Set into the right hip, head tilted with great weight to the opposing side, and shoulders that scream of the injustice of such a request.

You check for our legitimacy of transit and when you approach the elderly gentleman who hands you a dollar, your eyes lift upwards toward the heavens as if to ask God almighty why this holiest of burdens is thrust upon you to undertake.

And when you ask to see the gentleman’s I.D., I wish with all my soul for the ability to instantly recall the breakfast from my stomach, so that I may have the pleasure of vomiting on your white shirt. You ask for the I.D. of a gentleman who has, in no uncertain terms, earned his senior citizens dollar ride and secretly you have been mentally punched in the face by every witnessing passenger. Which, by quick estimation, is around eighteen.

I am caught glaring at you in wonderment and instantly I know you for what you are.

A Troll.

But not just any Troll.

The Troll from Willow.

And guess what, Bitch?

I just happen to be Madmartigan.

The Val Kilmer in me dons armor & sword and relentlessly thrusts and slashes at your horrid features; endeavors to end the gloom exuding from your pores by smiting you. Head from body, limb by limb, or at least kick you off the castle bridge into the moat after being turned to stone by an enchanted acorn.

But we all know how that last situation turns out, so for my own good and piece of mind I’ll be taking the 7:15 from now on.
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Madmartigan: What the hell happened up there?

Willow: You started spouting poetry. "I love you Sorsha! I worship you Sorsha!" You almost got us killed!

Madmartigan: "I love you Sorsha?" I don't love her, she kicked me in the face! I hate her... Don't I?