Nothing could have prepared the twenty-nine-year-old clerk Jens Feddersen for what he saw on that Friday night in December of 2015 in his always tidy two-room apartment.
When he entered his apartment after a hard day at work, to his chagrin, he found that the light was broken. Jens was not a person who showed easy feelings, but he had thundered in the office against a glass window, which had given him a big bump and severe headaches.
“Damn it,” he cursed loudly, fished his cell phone out of his coat pocket and pressed the flashlight’s icon.
What he then saw made his lower jaw drop down: in front of him stood a little man the size of a wine bottle. It wore a green, old-fashioned smock, held together by a wide belt over his thick belly. A red pointed hat graced his head and his feet were in light brown beak shoes. Beneath his bushy eyebrows, the same red hue as his magnificent beard, brown buttony eyes peeked out, which Jens – his mind was still idling – blinking in puzzlement.
Jens Feddersen was a man of reason. Already at the age of five, he knew that Santa Claus was a foolish child fairy tale, the witch of Hansel and Gretel an allegory of the evil stepmother, and the sleeping Sleeping Beauty only the story of the pubescent Lieschen Muller, who was just waiting for his awakening femininity to go to the next best guy to waste. He had learned that from his father, a hardened rationalist.
Before he could say something, the guy screamed, “Oh, damn it, boys start! Feddersen is here.” Then it rushed into the living room, where it now properly rumste and fucked.
Jens, recovering his composure, followed him with the light-emitting cell phone in his hand, slipped and slammed his bottom on the floor – causing his tailbone pain and his eyes a colorful starry sky.
On closer examination of the surroundings he saw the origin of his fall – a burst mandarin. Perplexed, Jens looked up – and froze: in the light of his mobile phone he saw books lying criss-crossed on the floor and pictures hanging crookedly on the walls.
In the confusion, little bearded males threw laughter at them with tangerines that sprang out of the fruit bowl as though by magic.
Who are you? “Jens shrieked, his voice an unusually high note.
“Brownies”, it shrieked from one side of the table, “Leprechaun”, from the other side and from the fruit bowl a deep voice growled: “Brownies” while more mandarins hopped out of the bowl.
Damn, I’m hallucinating, “Feddersen shouted, rubbing his booming head.
Then the little guys just hopped wildly around the table and shouted, “We’re not here! We’re not here! We do not exist! We do not exist! – Jippie!”, While they threw the mandarins, the splashed on the impact sticky juice.
“Immediately stop!” Jens yelled in panic.
Every well-read child knows that they are goblins – that’s why, by the way, it’s never been possible to yell at the gentlemen, because they are quickly insulted, which can have unpleasant consequences. His father had not taught him that.
Quinn, Finn, Hansi, Franzi, Jarl, and Karl, members of the notorious Brownie task force “First Aid for Maghemuffle,” abruptly paused, their little eyes glaring at Jens indignantly, then throwing an expectant look at the fruit bowl that now George, Her boss, with a crimson head and quivering beard, scrambled out, leaping to the floor in front of Jens.
“Man Feddersen, you deaf nut, you know that magical creatures do not exist and now you’re asking us to stop our fun little dance?” The goblin growled as he nudged his little knobby finger into Jens’s chest. He cringed in pain and shouted, “Ouch, that hurts!”
“Oh, how can something hurt that’s not there, you intelligence bolts?” George laughed scornfully. Jens thought for a moment, then came to the conclusion that he had to yield to the logic of reasoning.
“It’s good, it’s good, I understand it, it really does exist, please stop confusing everything here.” It occurred to him that his head had been damaged more than he had thought.
“Very well,” George grumbled, “if we stop, you owe each of us sweets and a cup of milk.”
“What’s that nonsense,” Jens grunted to himself as he rose from the ground. Some people learn fast, others slowly, and our Mr. Feddersen belonged to the second category.
George fluffed up threateningly and reached for a sticky tangerine lying on the floor next to him. Placid Jens raised his hands: “All right, all right, I’ll see what I’ve got.”
Hurriedly he ran into the kitchen and came a short time later with chocolate, sweet sour lollipops, Smarties and a pack of milk in the living room. There, Jens looked around in astonishment: Everything was cleaned up again, even the torn mandarins had dissolved in the air.
“Well, Feddersen, you’re not the brightest candle on the cake, but you have potential, too,” George laughed and the others joined in his laughter. Joyfully the goblins took the sweet gifts – then it puffed and they were gone.
So much excitement makes you tired. Jens decided to go straight to bed, especially as it hammered terribly in his head. When he awoke the next morning, he ran his hand over his throbbing forehead and muttered, “Phew, what a crazy dream.”
Whacked by sleep, he felt with his other hand for his cell phone, which was not lying on the dessert as usual. Groaning, he got up from the bed and went in search of.
“Oh, there you are,” Jens murmured as he saw it lying on the carpet in the living room. He picked up the phone and turned it on. With a strangled cry, he plopped down to the nearest chair and stared blankly at the screen for a long time. There, two goblins glittered under their pointed caps, and with raised fingers made the victory sign.
After these memorable experiences, Jens Federsen quit his job and now, much to the chagrin of his father, earns his money as a children’s book author. He also insists on putting out sweets and a bowl of milk every night before going to bed.