I open my eyes and naturally try to reposition my chin off my chest. I stop before I start as a sharp pain shoots through my stiff bent over neck. How long have I been here? Checking my predicament – except for my head I have slid lengthwise down the door to rest in a thin pool of black sludge. Lifting an arm black liquid slides off. What the …

Slowly leaning over, my thigh and buttocks slide out allowing an easy shift of my body to one side. Able to control the stretch now my neck gains some relief and movement while homing in on my next goal, to get out of this muck. Gritting my teeth, I skid and slide as I scramble up on my hands and knees. Taking a deep breath to vent my frustration I then slither through the muck until I reach dry floor. Dust clings to every contact point, knees, tops of my feet, and the palms of my hands as I crawl out and climb to my feet. My one piece of clothing, the white cloth, now swims dark in the pool of ichor. I am naked. Drops of black on my skin join others to bead and roll to the floor forming two pools of ichor around my feet while leaving behind a dark wet sheen, camouflaging my dark green skin.

What has become of me? My previous mission an outstanding success. Spirit separation from the pristine, designer native flesh bag process perfect, upon death. With my spirit held in an artificial ethereal containment, I anticipate my long-awaited return to an enhanced human body grown to match my specific predilections. My just and well-earnt reward after living as an alien for forty years. I spit some foul-tasting ichor from my mouth and quickly return to my pleasant reminiscing. The design selection absolute fun and almost a bonus in and of itself. Based upon the immersive virtual reality of the twenty-first century yet in reverse. Instead of a body lying in a pod and creating a virtual avatar, my spirit connects to a pod and selects from the available options to determine the physical characteristics of my future self. What is not to like about this? My flesh bag is supposed to be human, matching my reimagining, dark brown hair, piercing green eyes and subtle muscle with roguish good looks. Instead, I am this hideous black tar covered Hob humanoid. I raise a hand, a symbolic rejection of this thought pollution into my memory of what should have been. Pleasant thoughts, nothing but pleasant thoughts … then when my perfect flesh bag is grown to my specifications, I effortlessly slip my spirit into the flawless residence and take ownership.

Not this time, my spirit must make do, with primitive. My leave-life cancelled; the years owed to me to heal from losing zero-zero-five denied to me. The self-therapy I specified selfish of course, to spend my due leave-life chasing the current time period females of the human species ... wish fulfilment of sorts in fact. Is my current predicament punishment for my hedonistic coping strategy?

I sigh and gaze up at the high peak roof of the cabin judging there is enough clearance and stretch out my entire body going through the standard GPA test exercise routine for a humanoid body type. I start slow, with stretches and then intensify with shadow boxing and other martial arts. The stiffness in my neck is no more when I finish. I also award my Hob body high marks for fitness. There are many variations of these routines. I inwardly groan, don’t ever try the Ant exoskeleton stretches when a Spider based sentient creature – painful broken limb and with eight you wouldn’t think the loss of one important ... Agent double zero five doing exactly that flashes across my mind and I need to unleash a single cleansing grunt to wash away the heavy memory of her retelling.

My eyes rest upon the sludge and I can only hope the mess a by-product of the chemical and nanorobot cocktail administered to this corpse of mine before my spirit injection. The performance enhancement as the fitness test suggests, confirming the cocktail something more than mundane anti-viral and/or anti-bacterial immunisations and therefore my first flesh bag positive. What of my mental faculties? I drop to a cross-legged position on the edge of the ooze. To start, some quick calculations … a one-yard jogging step … a one thousand, seven hundred, and sixty-yard mile ….

I finally agree with myself on my jogging speed; a casual four miles an hour on the wooden trail for a couple of hours into a morning rising sun, therefore East. Two to three miles an hour jogging through the mud on a worn-out trail for six hours roughly North of East as the afternoon setting sun hits my left shoulder more than my back. During the journey, several short rest breaks, one river fording, one tallish hill near the village, one medium hill overlooking the farm, conquered. Therefore, from the pyre to cabin about twenty-three or twenty-four miles give or take. The calculation quick, my memory of the trail travelled exacting, and the significant surroundings observed along the way sharp and clear. Good, I nod and crack a grin as a reward. This brief joy fades just as quickly after the intrusion of a single thought … I am a living corpse. A sense of entrapment overwhelms me. My stomach rumbles to free me, or more probably a simple body function informing me I am hungry.

Calling in my three goblin ladies and witnessing them go arse up in the slick enters my mind. I sigh instead, stepping to one side of the oil and flinging the door open. Brilliant sunlight streams into the cabin from the East and therefore the morning of the next day greets me after the all-night blackout. I can’t have been wallowing in the black sludge for more than a day, could I?

Three bald bobbing green heads greet me.

“Food Great Hob?” says one, extending her hand reaching for mine, ignoring the thin ooze coating I now wear.

The one beside her slaps the hand away and bends back, her hands reaching for her feminine parts as she does.

The third runs off.

Only two choices then. While I still retain a great deal of my humanity, sex is out of the question. I doubt given her poor condition she could fall pregnant for a start. If by some miracle she did, the chances of her carrying to full term unlikely, only to produce another runt if she did. I know I will have to do the deed at some stage, I just need better cattle before I consider bedding ‘skin and bone ugly’. Their noses! I can’t get past my innate loathing, they remind me of a mosquito’s proboscis – at the end long thin and drooping, although not quite curling into their mouths.

My stomach rumbles again and the one offering food smiles and pokes her long black tongue at the other before extending her hand again.

I point at the lewd one. “Clean up the mess.” Then flick my thumb back at the cabin. She begins to open her mouth and quicker than I thought I could, my hand is around her throat. Accurate lunge, firm grip and I am dragging her forward. Eyes bulging, I lift her clear off the ground, legs dangling and flailing to deposit her in the cabin doorway. Her hands go to her throat massaging the hurt, eyes downcast. The smell of urine hastens my departure. Do I need to be so frightening? Ruling by fear is faster than trying to inspire loyalty and time is critical – they must do as I say when I say. The eternal questions spring to mind. Is this right? Do the ends justify the means? These three goblins accept my ruthless actions or is the truth, they are powerless to resist?

The food one claps her hands and skips childlike while leading me to a larger cabin, a short distance North of mine. Almost at the door, another voice squeaks, “Bath Great Hob?”

The food goblin halts in her tracks, a quick smile to me and then snap, she charges at the bath one trying to slap her. Bath goblin dodges and waves me to follow as she runs off, again. The ichor and dust are my clothes. The warmth of the sun thickens the mix although not enough for the crud to dry and flake off, therefore my hope of gradually becoming clean without help a faint one. I take one step away from the cabin doorway and feel a hand grab one of my fingers.

Staring down my nose, the food goblin releases my finger and steps back shivering.

“Follow, you can help,” I say.

She nods, displaying a wicked mouthful of yellow pointed teeth, which I assume is a smile, goblin style.

A bronze or copper cauldron awaits swinging over a log fire, the bath goblin claps her hands in triumphant at my appearance until she spies food goblin behind me and launches herself fists leading. Before they meet, I grab each by the throat and shake them. They go limp, their eyes searching for sympathy in mine.

I choose cruel and snarl, “Both wash me and then feed me.”

Lowering them both, the moment their feet touch the ground they each rush for a bucket and stool.

Some slapping and growls from me are required to enforce separation, each washing different parts of my body until my genitals remain. Eyes gleaming, with the instincts of a lion they are ready to pounce, only waiting for my permission. Don’t they understand I won’t tolerate fighting?

“Go ready the food and fetch clothes for me.” I point at each in turn, so they are clear who needs to do what.

Finishing my wash, I overhear giggling. Several younger female goblins approach the cauldron with buckets of water and cast furtive glances my way. They empty the buckets into the cauldron and with their load reduced concentrate on swaying their bottoms and blowing me kisses. I growl and they run off. Young or old, their hideous noses are a barrier, and my pecker agrees, staying at rest. They do draw my attention to a fast-flowing river further North, a natural barrier and therefore border of the Farm.

My breakfast is a gruel of some kind and my clothes which my goblin ladies insist on dressing me in are basic. Loincloth for the genitals, long straight-leg pants, which they struggle to put on me, slightly tight, which confuses them. Why? They are tight, get over it. Long-sleeved shirt and cured leather boots. All are a dark uneven brown, remarkably like the colour of the farm soil. I suspect they were subject to disposal given my demise and hastily recovered upon my return.

Next, I follow a simple plan, I order food goblin to stay in the kitchen cabin, take bath goblin with me, meet lewd goblin just as she finishes cleaning away the oil, ordering her to bathe and wait by my cabin. I then command bath goblin to show me around the farm. Once we finish, I park her in the kitchen cabin and repeat with food goblin and finally lewd goblin. They provide independent and thankfully similar explanations, emphasising different points and places between them providing a more than adequate overview of the farm.

One other thing I learn is their names, Zata the lewd one, Kexo the food one and Jora the bath one. Each spoke at great lengths how the other two wives were inadequate in one way or the other while emphasising where they of course excelled. I believe names hold a certain magic about them. Not knowing the names of insignificant degenerative beings of a race for example means they can be stereotyped as lesser beings and maltreated. After eighteen missions I have learnt the strength of naming any creature, they become humanised regardless of creature type. Unable to prevent yourself you individualise them inevitably becoming species blind, colour blind, immune to difference and if they are interesting enough you find yourself going deeper than skin deep to explore their personality. This seems to be the human way and I haven’t yet found a cure or even avoidance strategy. My self-awareness of this condition no help.

I learn from my wives I am a Great Hob because I farm, the oats provide a steady food supply for the village with underground storage for the cold months. During the cold months, the farm grows another crop, a root vegetable and from their description, reminds me of potatoes. I command the most goblins of the three Hobs, the other two don’t care. One hunts game with his hunter goblins, while the other Hob is like the Head Hob of the Village. He meets and greets any visitors, which are far and few between, settles any disputes between the goblins and many believe he is lazy, although none say this to his face.

On the farm, my word is law and goblin death at my hands my right as the strongest rules. The last goblin I caught in my cabin I strangled to death. The larger cabin north of mine is the kitchen cabin, this is where my food is prepared and where the three goblin wives sleep. They named themselves my wives and I don’t have any memory to contradict them, so allow my marriages to stand for now. Along the river are rows of one-room cabins for the multitude of goblins I command. Half work the farm and the other half build cabins and roads for any in the village. The farm has no domesticated animals, and the fields are dug up with sticks and then planted. Water is plentiful as the Northern swift-flowing river has a slower stream partner on the Southern side. The land, being in a valley gently slopes for good drainage. A huge mountain range rises in the West, two mountainous spurs a Northern arm and Southern arm gradually dimmish until the valley opens into a vast plain, which remains a great mystery.

I am busy over the next few weeks, I introduce the hand-drawn plough to the farm, the explanation to craft the implement takes time but once the goblin builders get the idea, reproduction flows easy. The other builders fill in the space between each one-room cabin with another cabin, which I instruct on how to convert to double story. The plan is to use the upper floor for grain storage. The trees are cleared using copper bladed axes, so progress is slow although I command the goblins to select trees to clear more farmland instead of from anywhere and the stumps are burnt out, including some aged ones. The ashes are spread across the fields while the black and charred wood they collect and stack. Once I have enough ploughs I demonstrate and instruct until the farm goblins can operate them. I rescue the best grain from the stores to be planted and there is much angst and weeping over this until I growl and smack a few goblins about. This is nothing though compared to the song and dance when I order a quarter of the farmland to remain fallow. I come close to strangling to death a couple of the loudest protesters. When the road builders finish, I order them to lay a duplicate path back to the village an equidistance from the existing path. Next season we will use goblin drawn wagons to cart the grain to the village.

With the farm busy, I decide the time right to visit my fellow Hobgoblins. I order my ladies to stay awake during the night and wake me before the predawn, food to break my fast ready and a full water skin for the trip. That done, I need an escort and start kicking in some barrack doors dragging the goblin occupants out until I count fifteen. I order them to line up in the predawn, the two females I snag out amongst the fifteen especially ugly. Skinny, frail things one and all with one sneaking along the line trying to play some sort of shell game avoiding any direct inspection. Up early, a decent hike to reach the village before dusk, I haven’t the patience.

“If you continue to avoid me, I will slaughter those standing in line until you are the only one. Stop your crap and stand before me. Now!” I scream the last word. The goblins in line cast their fearful eyes towards one of their number.

Head down, a tentative step forward separates the delinquent from the line-up. I approach baggy clothes.

“Head up,” I order.

Firstly, the face isn’t male but female, secondly, the nose size is tolerable and her cheeks full, a hint she isn’t skin and bone. My heart begins to race as my pecker reacts. I reach forward, hold the long-sleeved shirt at the shoulder with one hand while I grab and rip the sleeve at the cuff. The green arm is fleshy, and I can’t help but stare, words catching in my throat.

“Great Hob …” A squeaky voice hails me.

I drag my eyes from the feast before me in the direction of the, I assume, defender of her virtue. He approaches, wringing his hands, head bowed low. I recognise him. Like there is a four-foot-tall Head Goblin of the Builders, this one is the Head Goblin of the Farmers. With the changes to their farming practice and the grumbling protests he eventually presented himself. My ordering of him to carry out proper farm practice as described by myself short-circuited the bullshit.

I raise my eyebrows.

“She is my daughter …”

Nice to know I think to myself, and so?

“She is too young and won’t survive childbirth …”

The predawn breaks and many goblins are now out and about, the males licking their lips their peckers tenting their pants. Somehow the father has hidden her …

Grabbing her father by his shirt front I lift him off the ground until we are face to face, our noses a finger width apart.

I slide my head forward until beside his and whisper in his ear, “I will declare her mine to protect her virtue from the others. While you obey me in everything, I won’t claim her. You understand?”

“Y, yes Great Hob.” Relief and caution lace his reply.

I shake him and then address the gathering crowd of goblins. “She is mine and when I decide she is plump enough I will declare her my wife.”

The daughter collapses to her knees, sobbing. Many of the male goblins are cursing under their breaths, but really what did the little runts expect … As for me, the fact one such as her exists is enough. My threat to claim her will ensure obedience from her father while protecting her from others. A classic win-win outcome. I lower him and point to the remaining goblins to follow me. Her father can remain behind with his daughter to explain and offer comfort.

---

I jog to make up time. Steady breathing, halting occasionally to drink and I arrive at the village early afternoon, a six-hour journey with the wooden path underfoot. My goblins instantly drop to the ground, their chests rising and falling sucking in air.

“Stay here,” I order them. None respond and I stifle a chuckle.

A Village goblin spies me, glances at the immobile pile of goblins and tries to duck away.

“If I catch you prepare yourself for a beating,” I call out.

The goblin retraces his steps, backwards. My lips break out into a smile, is the creature thinking he is reversing time or something? As the goblin looks up, my smile vanishes greeting him with a growl.

“Where is the Hunter Hobgoblin?”

His hand scratches his head and then points towards the cliff face beyond the village. “Gathering above the waterfall, yes he will be there …”

I grab him by the scruff of the neck. “Show me.”

Releasing him, he scampers off and in an easy jog, I follow. A short trip West through the village leads to a set of stone steps carved into the cliff face beside a waterfall. The water spray and worn edges of the steps cause me to slow. Death by steps I will never be able to live down.

The goblin waits for me and points. In the distance the Hunter Hobgoblin is easy to recognise, he is at least one, more likely two feet taller than the ten or so goblins which follow him. My eyes return to my guide just in time for my arm to reach out and grab him by his scrawny neck. He shrieks.

“Fetch my goblins and tell them I will meet them here.”

My guide nods slowly and the moment I release him he bolts. I try to remember his face in case he fails, alas I fail, they all look alike!

In moments I am jogging along a well-worn packed dirt trail, knee-high healthy green grass on either side. In the distance, numerous rivulets or streams combine into one, which tumbles over the cliff and flows through the village. Before following the trail into the forest, I catch glimpses of smoke further up the valley and I stare long enough to confirm the grey-black tendrils are from houses. Another village further West then and not too far away.

Later I decide, for now, I need to catch a Hobgoblin Hunter and his band of goblins. I jog into the setting afternoon sun.

---

After jogging a short distance into the forest, I slow, several paths branch off, none really a continuation of the one I have been following. Cursing under my breath, the thick tree trunks and their full canopies laugh at me as shadow and sunlight shift about depending upon the vagaries of the valley wind.

A death squeal calls to me and quick as I sprint down one path for all I am worth. Goblins shouting and a deep Hobgoblin voice issuing orders confirm I am on the correct path or close enough. My legs weaken as I come across the hunting scene. Black goblin blood paints much of the ground, splashes of red blood from the wild boar and the green-brown ground cover offering contrasts to the canvas. Rips and tears decorate three bodies with enough remaining skin and muscle to hold the corpses together, while a fourth is a headless torso. Three spears of varying success stick out of the wild boar, which lies twitching on the ground. A fourth spear impales the animal’s head as I try to comprehend the waste of life.

Goblins are runts, yes, and while their future is doubtful this is simply slaughter, for one Hobgoblin’s sport. The surviving goblins swarm over the boar carcass and begin the task of harvesting the fur and meat. I stare at my fellow Hobgoblin trying to school my face and hold back my judgement of disgust. Instead, I examine what I must look like. Dark green skin, ears flat at the top, a matching pair of protruding tusk-like teeth and wiry muscle gracing arms and legs. His torso is slimmer than that of the Hobgoblin who presided over my pyre.

“Did you return broken?”

His question breaks me from my analysis and at my questioning look, he obliges with an explanation.

“You look like you want to sex me instead of the goblins,” he finishes with a boisterous laugh, one blood-free hand on his belly, while the other on his bloody spear steadying him.

“What? No …” I stammer like a green recruit.

“Good. You are the farmer. You grow food and new goblins – your job.”

My mouth remains open, ‘new goblins’?

He grunts at the goblins and smacks one with his spear. His eyes down he adds, “The hunt will need twenty goblins this season, so you better start planting your seed. The goblins whisper you haven’t started yet.”

Don’t goblins breed amongst themselves? “I will leave the goblins to breed this season my pecker is broken and needs some time to recover.”

Silence, except for the rustling of leaves as every set of eyes, goblin and more importantly the Hobgoblin’s turn upon me. The next moment he advances upon me placing an arm around my shoulder and leading me off a distance.

Whispering in my ear he says, “Where did you get that idea? They only practise relieving their lust, shooting blanks otherwise.” He withdraws his head slightly and raps his knuckles upon my head. “Did you wake from the dead head scrambled? You only suffered bruising on the chest when dragged from the stream, no head injury …”

Well, crap. With effort, I close my mouth.