The Fucks After Midnight

1. Prologue

I was thinking about my old friend, the Troll, this past week.

I met him just shy of forty years ago. His real name wasn’t “Troll,” or even his real nickname. He earned the nickname by being large and strong enough to bench press the front end of a VW. And he was a pleasant enough fellow, but the things that made me think about him recently were his fondness for fantasy literature and gaming... and his incessant use of the word “fuck.”

Another of our acquaintances said, once, “The Troll only knows about a hundred words, and half of them are “fuck.” This was hardly fair. The Troll was as smart and articulate as anyone, and more so than some I could name... but he sure used the effword a lot. Even by the standards of a buncha foulmouthed nineteen year olds. Noun, verb, gerund, intensifier, interjection, and even adverb on occasion; the word “fuck” got a real workout from the Troll, particularly if he was irritated, angry, or even just excited.

I mentioned fantasy games. We played a lot of Dungeons and Dragons at the time (we had free time, and D&D’s cheap if you have the books already), and the Troll was a FIEND for the game, fucks and all. He invariably played an incredibly vicious fighter sort, a master swordsman, invariably with some magical talent as well, specializing in offensive spellcasting. Every time. Every character. He saw no point in clever thieves, wise clerics, or powerful wizards; he was a SWORDSMAN, dammit, with just enough magic to give him the edge. And fry you from a distance, of course.

And it was this that led us to the Night Of The Living Fucks, so to speak.

2. Fucks After Midnight

One particular game we played lasted some twelve hours, and finally petered out sometime after midnight when the Troll could play no more, and stretched out on the couch to rest his eyes. He was snoring within five minutes.

The rest of us weren’t quite so tired, and we turned on the TV with the volume down and discussed the game and drank our beverages and waited to get tired enough to stretch out ourselves.

...and at some point, the Troll muttered, “...fuck.”

We all stopped talking and looked at him. He was still asleep. He moved his head back and forth, and said, “Fuck,” again.

We looked at each other. We looked back at him. “Fuck,” said the Troll. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Well,” I said softly, so’s not to wake him up, “I don’t think he’s using it as a verb this time.”

“Or the command form,” said Rocket Boy. “He seems frustrated.”

“Definitely an interjection,” said Bobo.

“Fuck,” said the Troll.

This went on for a while, as we speculated as to what the Troll might be dreaming of, and the Troll continued to utter his favorite word periodically. We tried talking to him softly, asking him to tell us what he saw, to explain. The Troll wasn’t having any of that, and said nothing. Except “Fuck.” Regularly. Sometimes as often as twice a minute or more. Just that one word. Nothing more. Kind of like the uncensored version of Poe’s “The Raven,” you know?

And finally, Bobo leaned over and shook his shoulder. The Troll came awake, and growled, “What? I’m sleepin’.”

“Dude, what were you DREAMING about?” said Rocket Boy. “You’ve said the word “fuck” something like fifty times in the last fifteen minutes.”

The Troll fixed him with an irritated gaze. “Fuck you,” he said, and rolled over and went back to sleep.

We never did find out what he was dreaming about.

3. A Game Of Fucks

And time passed, and we grew older, and went our separate ways. Fantasy novels became a big thing over the past thirty years, and finally big fantasy films and even TV series, as Game Of Thrones became a colossal phenomenon after the success of Lord Of The Rings. And I was glad. I liked ‘em all. Where were they back in 1985? Well, better late than never.

And then, this past week, I was binging the new Netflix series, The Witcher, about the noble monster hunter Geralt, a master swordsman who also had a knack for magic, and in the first episode, he finds himself shoehorned into a situation he’d rather not be in... with a gang of thugs who think they have him right where they want him... and prepare to kill him.

Geralt is far too badass for them, though. And he knows it, but they don’t. And he doesn’t WANT to kill these idiots, but he knows he isn’t going to have a choice. And actor Henry Cavill, who plays Geralt, in a tired but irritated voice... says...

...”Fuck.”

And then in a whirlwind of flashing steel, he kills all the thugs within a minute.

I sat there in a daze. Who did this remind me of? Badass master swordsman who can also sling spells, hacks his way through bad guys like you’d mow a lawn, dark and brooding...but with a heart of gold, albeit a bit tarnished.

And for the rest of the series, every time Geralt finds himself in an irritating situation...

....”Fuck.” It’s his catchphrase. And by the end of the series, I couldn’t help but giggle every time he did it. Geralt, as played by Henry Cavill, is the epitome of every character the Troll ever built. It’s like someone captured the Troll’s very essence on film.

Troll? Wherever you are? This fuck’s for you, old friend.