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Chapter One: The Trog is busy preparing a trap
Deep under the ground, in the dark, twisting tunnels of Froggle, the Trog is busy preparing a trap. “There’s no doubt about it,” he crows as he stares in his mirror. “I’m the cleverest, most gorgeous Trog who ever lived.”
It’s well known in Froggle, however, the Trog isn’t clever or gorgeous. For hundreds of years he has tried to catch a bunyip and for hundreds of years he has failed.
Every morning he wakes with a new plan. “Yes! Yes!” he crows. “This is the bestest plan ever. The bestest plan that ever was.” Every evening the new plan fails. “Oh snoff!” he cries. “Tricked again!”
As far as Trogs go, he is average looking. His body is fat and out of shape. Years of lazing about have left him with a huge belly and several double chins. All the mud baths in the world can do nothing for his loose, scaly skin. It stays the same shade of green-grey, no matter how long he soaks.
Furthermore, his long claws need a good trim and scrub. They are quite disgusting. Even more horrible is his habit of using them to pick his fangs and clean his ears – at the dinner table! He is tall, fat, dirty and smelly, a typical Trog, no better or worse than any other.
On this September day, he is pleased with himself for being so clever. He sings and Trog stomps around his underground cave,
There’s never been anyone as mean as me.
I’ll catch those bunyips one, two, three.
My teeth will grind their little bones
My ears will hear their cries and groans
My eyes will watch them disappear
My strength will grow from their fear.
I’ll grind them up
One, two, three
There’s never been anyone as mean as me.
Snolly the spittle is leaning on the wall picking his nose when he hears the Trog singing. “But Master,” he mumbles. “There are more than three bunyips, but the new one is funny looking. It doesn’t have any fur and it’s all covered in freckly skin. Gross!” He screws up his warty face as he tries to get at a particularly tricky bit.
The Trog is puzzled, as he knows of only three bunyips in Tarybangle Valley. “I’m sure there’s only three! Henry, Emmy and Aristotle. Their names have burned on my brain for centuries. There’s no way I could make a mistake.”
In a terrible temper he whacks poor Snolly on the head with his tail and calls for his favourite spittles, “Blistering bunyips! Renk! Squeed! Come here. I‘ve got a job for you.”
Renk is horrified to hear the Trog calling. He had settled into his nest for a nice nap. “Oh strenkle! Oh snoff!” he curses. “What does he want now?” Muttering angrily to himself he waddles off to find Squeed.
Squeed is good at hiding. In fact, he is famous for it. Once he hid in the garbage pile for a whole week but nobody looked for him and a pile of orange peels stuck to his slimy body. Now he smells lovely and orange-y, like a pot of marmalade.
Finally Renk finds Squeed lurking about one of the smaller caves. He is catching moths and eating them. Renk shakes his head in disgust. This is one of Squeed’s most revolting habits. Squeed swallows loudly and smacks his lips together.
“Look here,” scolds Renk. ‘Doesn’t Master feed you enough? And don’t crunch in my ear. You’re making me feel sick.”
Squeed quickly gulps down a few more moths, “Stop bossing me, bossy bum,” he complains.
Quickly they shuffle along to the Trog’s cave. This large, roomy cave is called Maglev. All the other caves have names as well. The spittles (all 200 of them) live in Fusskin, a nice cave, but not nearly as nice as the Trog’s.
Behind the home caves, there are many smaller caves called The Shilpits. These are useful places for hiding from the Trog.
The spittles slave in these caves and tunnels finding boiling mud for the Trog’s daily mud baths. They dig away the hard dirt of the caves and collect the mud as it bubbles to the surface. This mud is used to create the huge boiling mud pits of Tarboosh and Morwong.
Renk and Squeed stand in the doorway of Maglev and wait for the Trog to notice them. Their Master is in a cranky mood.
“Come in you spiffling spittles!” he yells. “And stop staring at me. I have an important job for you. I want you to go to the bunyips’ billabong and see what they’re up to.”
“What do you mean Master?” asks Squeed.
“What do you mean, what do I mean! What do you think I mean?” bellows the Trog as he thumps his heavy tail up and down.
“We have to climb the Whistling Billabong tree and spy on the bunyips,” answers Renk quickly.
“Humpf! Don’t let them see you. They must not suspect a thing. Now get lost!” the Trog curls up in his nest and is soon snoring.
The spittles don’t hurry. They dawdle through the tunnels, teasing other spittles and wasting time.
They don’t want to spy on the bunyips because it means leaving the safety of Froggle and its underground caves. Renk and Squeed are worried because spittles can only see in the dark. Bright light blinds them completely. What if morning arrives while they’re still up the tree?
Eventually they reach the secret magic snake hole leading to Tarybangle Valley and squash through it. They cough and splutter as the fresh air burns their lungs.
“This had better be worth it,” Renk grumbles. He stretches, scratches and sneezes. Like all Spittles, he hates trees, flowers, birds, animals, fresh air and sunshine. This means he hates Tarybangle Valley.
In a few hours, Renk and Squeed will meet the first Human Child to visit the magical world of the Trog, spittles, bunyips and billabongs. How she got there is a whole new story.
Image may be NSFW.
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Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
