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glitterp0prhaps0dy · 8 months ago

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Bad Hair Day

It was Friday night, which meant Carol and Riff were in the house. Floyd, now equipped with crutches since his sprained ankle had healed but his leg remained broken, sat on the floor, taking it easy. Barb lounged on the couch behind him, busy styling his hair into whatever wild creation she pleased. Meanwhile, Carol had gathered an assortment of ingredients, concocting something slimy-looking.

Riff occupied the house phone, ordering a pizza for the evening's indulgence.

Thrash had planned to spend the evening at home, but plans took an unexpected turn when Sid Frett decided to drop by for a visit. Sid wasn't alone; accompanying him was his unusual but charming pet bat, which nestled comfortably in his lap. As Carol busied herself concocting one of her infamous slime recipes, Sid assisted by passing her various ingredients, all the while gently stroking his bat.

Meanwhile, Rebel was on a mission throughout the house. She was diligently collecting blankets, pillows, sheets, and a variety of plushies. Her goal was to transform the living room into a cozy fort where everyone could gather, relax, and enjoy the playful ambiance of their makeshift hideaway. The evening was shaping up to be one of those spontaneous gatherings that promised laughter and a touch of whimsy.

Carol triumphantly lifted the bowl above her head, her face alight with mischievous glee. "BEHOLD! My latest masterpiece! Bow before the might of my slime creation!" she proclaimed, her voice echoing through the room.

Sid chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "You've outdone yourself, Carol. That looks... interesting."

Riff, from his spot on the couch, smirked and called back, "That thing's more terrifying than half the horror movies we've watched!"

Floyd, still fiddling with his crutches, couldn't help but laugh. "Just don't get any of that goo near me, please."

Roxanne, the bat, seemed particularly captivated by the glittering slime. With a swift flutter of her wings, she swooped down, snatched the bowl from Carol's hands, and ascended rapidly, perching herself high on a bookshelf where no one could reach.

"Hey! Roxanne, bring that back!" Carol shouted, jumping up in an attempt to retrieve her creation.

Sid stood, trying to coax the bat gently. "C'mon, Roxanne, let's not start a slime war here."

Riff joined in, "Maybe she wants to add bat artistry to it, eh?"

As they all tried different tactics to persuade Roxanne, the bat seemed to consider their pleas. With a sudden decision, she tipped the bowl and dropped it right as Rebel walked into the room. The slime cascaded down, landing with a splat on the left side of Rebel's head, covering her hair and shoulder in sticky, glittery goo.

Rebel froze, wide-eyed and slimed. "Seriously? Right when I thought this day couldn't get any stickier," she groaned, wiping the goo from her face.

Carol burst into laughter, even as she rushed over with apologies. "I swear it's good for your skin... or hair... maybe?"

Riff couldn't contain his mirth. "Looks like you've been officially initiated by Roxanne's slime baptism!"

Floyd, still safely away from the slime fiasco, grinned. " It's not a proper hangout until something weird happens."

Rebel playfully hurled a bundle of blankets at Floyd, sending him toppling over with a surprised yelp. The soft landing cushioned his fall, eliciting a small puff of air as he landed. Next, a barrage of plushies flew towards Carol, who welcomed them with a triumphant shout of "MY ARMY!" She gathered them around her protectively, as if preparing for battle.

With everyone suitably equipped for the fort-building mission, Rebel distributed the remaining items she had gathered. She then made her way to the kitchen, intent on washing off the sticky remnants of slime from her encounter with Roxanne's playful antics.

Barb followed Rebel into the kitchen, grabbing a towel as she entered. "Need a hand?" she asked, pitching in without waiting for a reply.

"Thanks," Rebel replied, turning on the faucet and adjusting the temperature. "How's your day been?"

"Usual chaos," Barb chuckled, helping to work shampoo into Rebel's hair. "Carol's experiments never cease to amaze me—or terrify me, depending on the day."

Rebel laughed, her head under the stream of water. "Yeah, her creativity is something else. I'm just glad her enthusiasm is mostly contained to non-explosive materials these days."

As they worked the suds through the tangled locks, they soon realized the slime was stubbornly clinging on. They exchanged a glance, a mix of frustration and amusement in their eyes. "Well, this is going to be tougher than I thought," Rebel sighed.

Rebel and Barb were at their wit's end trying to remove the stubborn slime from Rebel's hair. They had already tried multiple remedies, from dish soap to mayonnaise, but nothing seemed to work. The slime clung to her hair like it was meant to be there permanently.

"Okay, let's not panic. We'll figure this out," Barb reassured Rebel, though her own confidence was waning.

Carol, feeling responsible for the mess, joined in. "Let me try something else," she suggested, fetching a bottle of vinegar from the kitchen. "This could help break it down," she said with hopeful eyes. Despite their doubts, Rebel let her pour the vinegar over her head, wincing at the smell.

"Anything?" Carol asked, her voice filled with hope.

"Just a stinky head," Rebel replied, frustrated as she rinsed her hair yet again, only to find the slime mocking their efforts.

Seeing the ongoing struggle, Floyd limped in with a new suggestion. "What about ice? Freeze it and maybe it'll peel right off?"

"That sounds... a bit extreme," Rebel hesitated but agreed out of desperation. They wrapped her hair in ice packs, waiting for a miracle that never came. The slime remained, unaffected by the cold.

Riff entered the scene with a confident stride. "I've got it—club soda. Works on stains all the time," he announced, pouring the fizzy liquid over Rebel's head. Everyone watched anxiously, only to sigh in disappointment as it too failed to dislodge the sticky mess.

The frustration was palpable when Carol, out of ideas and feeling guilty, blurted out, "Well damn... Well, it looks like we're gonna have to cut it out."

"YOU'RE NOT CUTTING MY HAIR!" Rebel shouted, the very idea pushing her to her limits.

After a tense silence, Rebel finally relented. With a resigned nod, she allowed Carol to grab a pair of scissors and begin snipping away at the slime-encrusted hair. Piece by piece, the slime-coated locks fell away, revealing a surprisingly stylish side shave haircut underneath.

As the last of the slime-coated hair fell away, Rebel examined her new 'do in the mirror, a mix of surprise and amusement crossing her face. "Well, I guess this is one way to shake things up," she remarked, a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

Everyone regrouped in the living room, each member of the group ready to dive into the fort-building project. Floyd, still navigating with crutches, showed no signs of slowing down as he directed the placement of cushions and blankets. Together, they draped sheets over chairs and tables, transforming the space into a cozy enclave. Pillows were strategically placed for comfort, while plushies scattered across the ground added an extra layer of softness.

As they were setting the last blanket in place, a knock echoed through the room. Riff, ever eager, dashed to the door. His face lit up as he greeted the pizza delivery person, the aroma of freshly baked pizza filling the air as he brought the box inside. The group gathered around, each taking a slice, their fort-building efforts momentarily paused in favor of the delicious treat.

With their energy replenished, the movie picking session began. Carol kicked things off with her choice, a bizarre sci-fi called "Galactic Goo Monsters from Mars." Floyd selected a classic action-packed thriller, "Skyline Heist," known for its spectacular stunts and explosive plot. Barb, ever the romantic at heart despite her tough exterior, surprised everyone with a little-known indie film, "Whispers of the Heart." Riff rounded out the selection with a horror flick, "Nightmare on Crow Street," which he claimed would keep everyone on their toes.

With a stack of movies lined up, the group settled into their plush fortress. The lights dimmed, the first movie began, and laughter mingled with the occasional shriek filled the room. As the night wore on and the final credits rolled on their movie marathon, the group decided to break out Monopoly to keep the fun going.

The game started friendly enough, with each player strategically acquiring properties and building their empire. However, as the game progressed, the competitive spirit took over. Sid found himself relegated to jail after a risky decision didn't pay off, spending turn after turn unable to escape. Riff, on the other hand, thrived, amassing almost all the game's money and properties, becoming a Monopoly mogul. Barb wasn’t as fortunate; her finances in the game mirrored a rollercoaster ride, ultimately leaving her bankrupt.

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As the night deepened, the energy of the room gradually wound down. The once lively banter and laughter subsided into a comfortable silence punctuated only by the soft soundtrack of their final movie flickering in the background. One by one, the group succumbed to the warmth and coziness of their makeshift fortress. The plushies that once lay scattered on the ground now served as soft, makeshift pillows or cuddly companions as each member found their spot under the expansive blanket ceiling.

Sid, exhausted from his extended Monopoly jail time, was the first to drift off. He nestled into a snug space between Floyd and Riff, his head resting on a particularly fluffy stuffed dragon. Floyd, managing to adjust his crutches beside him, leaned back against a pile of cushions, his breathing slow and even as he too fell asleep. Riff, ever the night owl, stayed awake a bit longer, his eyes barely keeping open as he watched over his friends like a protective older brother. Eventually, even his eyelids grew heavy, and he joined the others in slumber, his hand still clutching a handful of Monopoly money as if guarding his empire even in sleep.

Barb, known among her friends for her ability to sleep through almost anything, was out like a light. She had inadvertently turned Carol into her personal pillow, her head resting comfortably on Carol's shoulder. Carol, slightly less comfortable but too amused by the situation to move, watched Barb for a few moments, smiling softly at her friend's gentle snoring before her own eyes closed, and she too drifted off.

Rebel found a quiet corner of the fort, away from the gentle chaos of her friends. Roxanne, curled up in the crook of her neck, both finding comfort in the presence of the other. Rebel's breathing was soft and rhythmic, a peaceful counterpoint to the occasional snuffle or shift from the others.

As the movie ended, the TV cast a soft glow over the room, illuminating the peaceful scene. The fort, filled with friends and laughter just hours before, now hosted a serene tableau of connected lives, the outside world forgotten for a few precious hours. In this safe haven of blankets and dreams, they shared more than just a space; they shared a bond that nights like these only deepened.

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Hours later, as the night deepened into the wee hours, Thrash returned home. The house was quiet, the only sound the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the soft murmur of the TV left on low. As he entered the living room, he spotted the group of sleeping teenagers, nestled within their cozy fort. Their peaceful slumber brought a warm smile to Thrash's face, a rare moment of tranquility in their often chaotic lives.

However, his serene reverie was abruptly shattered when his gaze landed on Rebel and her unexpected companion. Roxanne, the bat, was curled up beside Rebel, nuzzled against her neck in a display of unusual affection. Thrash's eyes widened in shock, his mind racing with a million questions and concerns.

He stood frozen for a moment but then started retreating to the safety of his own room. In the end, his instinct for self-preservation won out. With a mixture of fear and bewilderment, Thrash turned on his heels and hurriedly ascended the stairs, seeking refuge in the solitude of his bedroom.

#trolls #trolls au #dreamworks trolls #trolls world tour #trolls movie #trolls floyd #trolls sid fret #trolls carol #trolls rebel #trolls thrash #king thrash #trolls riff #trolls barb #bad hair day #trolls oc #trolls bat #trolls fanfiction #trolls fanfic #trolls fandom

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glitterp0prhaps0dy · 8 months ago

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Broken Noses

Floyd had been fortunate to encounter such kindness since his arrival. From Barb's welcoming attitude to Thrash's... unique charm, Riff's chaotic camaraderie, Carol's enthusiastic presence, Demo's polished demeanor, Val's fearless spirit, and even that peculiar fish-like vendor who mysteriously showed up once a month - everyone had extended a hand of friendship. Even Rebel, who had her reservations initially, had warmed up in her own way. It was a motley crew of rockers and misfits that Floyd had somehow found a place among.

However, unbeknownst to this eclectic group, not everyone in the city was thrilled about the new Pop Troll's presence. There was a discordant note in their harmonious existence, a shadow lurking just out of sight. As they ventured into the market for a day of fun and exploration, little did they know that their pleasant outing was about to hit a sour note.

Their ignorance wasn't their fault; how could they have known? The city was a big place, filled with all sorts of characters, and they had been lucky enough to mostly encounter the friendly ones. But luck, like the weather in a rock ballad, can change swiftly and without warning.

So, as they laughed and bantered, making their way through the bustling market, a storm was brewing on the horizon. They were yet to realize that their day, which had started with such promise, was destined to end on a discordant chord.

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Rebel scrutinized the shopping list, her eyes narrowing as she tried to decipher the scrawled items. They stood at the entrance of the market, a replacement for the one previously charred courtesy of Riff's antics. "You know, we'll probably save time if we tackle this list in separate teams," Rebel proposed, glancing up from the list to the others. "Everyone okay with splitting up?" she inquired, gauging the group's reaction.

Carol was absentmindedly spinning a drumstick between her fingers, lost in thought as she hummed a tune only she could hear. Barb was fiddling with a small, intricately designed pendant hanging around her neck, her eyes occasionally darting around the market's entrance, taking in the hustle and bustle. Riff, with his ever-present energy, was tapping his foot rapidly on the ground, a beat forming in his mind as he surveyed the surroundings with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Floyd, meanwhile, was adjusting his hat, a slight look of apprehension on his face as he observed the lively market, still somewhat new to the chaos of the Rock Trolls' world.

At Rebel's suggestion to split up, each paused their individual preoccupations, their attention turning towards her to respond.

Carol halted her drumstick's spin, catching it with a practiced grip. "Sure thing," she said with a nod, already scanning the market stalls for musical accessories.

Barb released her pendant, looking determined. "Yeah, splitting up works. I'll take the food section. Quick in, quick out," she stated confidently, her leadership qualities shining through.

Riff ceased his rhythmic foot-tapping, a grin spreading across his face. "Sounds like a plan! I'll head towards the fireworks and...stuff," he declared, barely containing his excitement at the prospect of exploring.

Floyd adjusted his hat once more, offering a hesitant but willing smile. "Okay, I'll manage," he said, his voice carrying a note of uncertainty but also a readiness to participate.

Rebel noticed Carol veering off course, her enthusiasm for drumming accessories momentarily distracting her from the task at hand. Quickly stepping forward, Rebel gently grabbed Carol by the elbow, guiding her back to the group with an amused shake of her head. "Hold up, we're a band, not a solo act," Rebel teased, earning a sheepish grin from Carol.

Once everyone was back together, Rebel unfolded a slightly crumpled piece of paper, clearing her throat to get everyone's attention. "Alright, team, here's the game plan," she began, pointing to each item on the list as she assigned tasks to the group.

"Carol, you're on kitchen duty. We need rockberry jam, some crystal sugar, and don't forget the bass-boosted beans," she instructed, handing over a small basket to Carol, who nodded enthusiastically, mentally preparing herself for the culinary quest.

"Barb, you're tackling the home essentials. We need new strings for the sound system, a couple of lava lamps for ambiance, and if you can find any of those glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars, grab 'em," Rebel directed, giving Barb a knowing look that said, 'make our place the coolest cave in town.'

Riff was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager for his assignment. "And Riff, you're on entertainment and miscellaneous. Pick up some spark rock for the fireplace, a few vinyl records of classic rock bangers, and... please, try not to get distracted by the fireworks stand," she added, her tone a mix of sternness and jest.

Finally, Rebel turned to Floyd with a gentle smile. "And Floyd, I've got the perfect task for you. Can you handle getting the fluffernutter spread? It's just one thing, and it should be right at the entrance. Plus, it's essential for our snack stash," she explained, handing him a small, lightweight bag. Her tone was encouraging, making it clear she had chosen something within Floyd's comfort zone to ensure he felt included without being overwhelmed.

Carol sprung into action, her drumsticks magically appearing in her hands as she approached her mission with the enthusiasm of a rock star hitting the stage. To the casual observer, her shopping method resembled an impromptu performance; she tapped on cans as if testing their sound quality, drumrolled on the countertops, and even managed a mini solo using a pair of zucchinis as makeshift mallets. Her journey through the food aisles was less about the destination and more about the rhythm along the way, though she never lost sight of her ultimate goal: the rockberry jam, crystal sugar, and bass-boosted beans.

Riff, with a mischievous glint in his eye, took off towards the entertainment section. His path was anything but straight, zigzagging through crowds, occasionally stopping to inspect something shiny or unusually shaped. He couldn't help but detour through the pyrotechnics section, eyeing the sparkliest fireworks with a childlike wonder, though he remembered Rebel’s warning just in time to pull himself away and continue on his quest for spark rock and vinyl records.

Barb moved with purpose, her gaze fixed on her list of household essentials. The lava lamps and glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars were a must for setting the right vibe at home. She navigated the market with the efficiency of a seasoned shopper, though she couldn't resist pausing at a stall selling vintage rock posters, reminiscing about concerts past before snapping back to her task.

Meanwhile, Floyd explored the market with a mixture of curiosity and determination. The variety of goods on display captivated him; from exotic fruits that looked like they belonged in a science fiction movie to musical instruments that seemed to play themselves. Despite these distractions, Floyd maintained his focus on finding the fluffernutter spread, his eyes scanning each stall with increasing intensity. Finally, he spotted the stand he needed, but the vendor behind it was fast asleep, snoring gently. The precious fluffernutter spread sat just beyond, tantalizingly out of reach. Floyd hesitated, pondering his next move, his mission momentarily thwarted by the slumbering obstacle before him.

Floyd mulled over his options, his internal dialogue a whirlwind of considerations. ‘Should I wake them? No, that seems rude. But then again, they are sleeping on the job. Maybe there's another stall with fluffernutter spread, but I've wheeled around this market three times already and this is the only one I've seen. Why would they choose to nap now, of all times? Do they not want to sell anything?’

He continued to ponder, weighing the pros and cons of each potential action. ‘If I try to grab it myself, that could end badly if they wake up. They might think I'm trying to steal it. On the other hand, if I don't get this spread, I'll be letting Rebel and the others down. But really, who sleeps through market hours? It's both impressive and baffling.’

Floyd's thoughts danced around the dilemma, seeking a solution that felt right. ‘Maybe they had a rough night? Or perhaps they're not feeling well. Ugh, but I really need that spread. Okay, what if I just gently wake them up? A polite nudge, nothing too startling. That has to be the best option, right? Yeah, I'll do that. Just a gentle wake-up call. No harm in that.’

Resolved but still a tad uncertain, Floyd prepared to gently rouse the vendor, hoping the interaction would be as smooth as the fluffernutter spread he was so eager to acquire.

Before Floyd could even attempt to rouse the slumbering vendor, the vendor startled awake on his own. He had an unusual appearance, with grey-purple skin, black hair, and a muddy blue nose. Sporting a headband and a red and black shirt, along with black shorts, a leather vest, and studded bracelets, he certainly stood out in the market crowd.

"Whoa, sorry about that, dude," the vendor said, blinking groggily like a frog awakening from a nap. His voice was laid-back and chill, with a hint of an edgy surfer vibe.

"Hey, wait a minute... you're that troll everyone's been talking about! Cool! The name's Sid Frett," he introduced himself with a casual nod, acknowledging Floyd with a friendly grin.

Floyd narrowed his eyes at the troll before him, piecing together where he had heard that name. That's right, during one of Riff's more colorful stories about wild parties, he had mentioned a notorious party aficionado named Sid! "I'm Floyd," he replied, his attention momentarily diverting back to the essential item on his shopping list. "It's nice to meet you, really, but I'm actually here to buy something from you. The fluffernutter—" Floyd's introduction was abruptly cut short as a hulking brute of a troll approached the stand.

This imposing figure had long, red and black hair that tumbled messily down his back, and his head was adorned with a fearsome animal skull. His outfit screamed 'wild'—wearing leather pants that had seen better days, with patches and studs adorning the seams. Around his waist, a belt with bones and teeth dangled, clinking with every step he took. His chest was bare, save for the straps of a harness that held various pouches and what appeared to be small tools or weapons. Tattoos snaked up his arms, telling tales of victories, battles, and perhaps even lost loves in a visual tapestry that was as intimidating as it was intriguing.

The brute exhaled sharply through his nose, a visible puff in the air, as he glared directly at Floyd, sending a shiver down his spine. The uncomfortable tension was palpable. Then, with the same intensity, the brute's menacing gaze shifted to survey the stand and Sid Frett, assessing the situation with an unreadable expression.

The brute troll's voice was a rumbling growl, as if each word was dragged up from the depths of a dark, tumultuous sea. "Sid," he barked, his gaze still locking Floyd in a chilly embrace before dismissively turning to the vendor. "I'm here for the usual."

His words were clipped, a sharp contrast to the laid-back aura of Sid Frett. The brute's massive frame loomed over the stand, casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the light. He leaned in, the bones and teeth on his belt clinking ominously. "Make it quick. I've got places to be and things to... handle." The last word was almost a hiss, filled with a menacing promise.

Sid, for his part, seemed unfazed by the aggression, nodding amiably. "Sure thing, big guy. Just give me a sec."

The brute then turned his attention back to Floyd, his eyes narrowing to slits. "And you," he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "What's a pop troll doing here, eh? You lost, little boy? This ain't your bright, shiny world." His posture was aggressive, an unspoken threat hanging in the air between them. It was clear from his demeanor and his words that he had little regard for Floyd, viewing him as an unwelcome intrusion into his domain.

Floyd swallowed hard, the unease twisting in his stomach making his words tremble as they left his lips. "Just... healing up and... hanging out with friends..." His voice was barely above a whisper, a stark contrast to the brute's domineering presence.

The brute troll snorted, his disdain for Floyd palpable. "Healing up? In *our* city? You pop trolls are all the same, weak and relying on others to pick up after your messes. What, can't handle a bit of real troll life without running back to your sugary songs and sparkly dances?" His voice was like gravel, harsh and unyielding, each word designed to cut deep.

"You don't belong here, pinkie. This place," he gestured broadly, encompassing the market with a sweep of his arm, "is for those who can handle themselves, not for delicate little flowers who wilt at the first sign of trouble."

Just then, Sid returned, holding the dangerous item the brute had requested. He caught the tail end of the brute's tirade and immediately frowned. "Hey, no cool, dude," Sid interjected, his voice firm yet calm. "No need for that kind of vibe here. We're all just trying to get along, you know?" Sid's laid-back demeanor didn't waver, but there was a note of seriousness in his voice that suggested he wouldn't tolerate any further aggression towards Floyd. "Let's keep it mellow, alright?"

In the bustling market, a subtle commotion began to draw the attention of Barb, Carol, and Riff. From a distance, they spotted Floyd, his wheelchair unmistakable amidst the throng of shoppers. They exchanged quick glances, an unspoken agreement between them, and began to navigate through the crowd, their steps quickening as they closed in on their friend.

Meanwhile, Floyd, despite the coil of fear tightening in his chest, found a spark of defiance that surprised even him. Looking up at the brute troll, he mustered all the sass he could gather. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize we were measuring toughness by the ability to be rude to strangers in a marketplace. In that case, congratulations, you're the toughest troll here," Floyd retorted, his voice laced with sarcasm.

The brute's face twisted into a scowl, his eyes narrowing dangerously. The tension crackled in the air, the brute's anger visibly rising like a storm cloud ready to burst. Floyd's retort had struck a nerve, and the situation teetered on the edge of escalating further.

Floyd, sensing the brute's anger reaching a boiling point, couldn't resist pushing just a bit further, his voice dripping with an audacity that seemed to draw strength from the looming threat. "And here I was thinking the market was for shopping, not for flexing muscles you probably got from lifting your ego."

The brute's face turned an alarming shade of red, veins bulging like road maps on his forearms and forehead, his fists clenching so tightly that his knuckles whitened. The fire of rage in his eyes blazed even brighter, threatening to ignite the very air between them. It was clear Floyd's words had fanned the flames of his temper into a full-blown inferno.

Sid chuckled lazily, his laid-back demeanor contrasting sharply with the tension in the air. "Looks like pop trolls do pack some sass after all," he remarked, a smirk playing on his lips as he sided with Floyd.

Enraged by Sid's amusement and Floyd's defiance, the brute's temper erupted like a volcano. With a roar, he launched himself at Floyd, his massive fists swinging wildly. Before anyone could react, his knuckles connected with Floyd's face in a sickening crunch. The force of the blow sent Floyd's wheelchair tumbling over, the sound of impact echoing through the market square. As Floyd crashed to the ground, stunned silence fell over the onlookers, their eyes wide with shock at the sudden violence.

Floyd cried out, the sharp sting of pain radiating from his nose, now bleeding and seemingly misshapen from the brute's punch. His arms bore the harsh scrapes from the rocky ground beneath him. "What the hell, Grog?" Sid Fret exclaimed, his usual mellow tone replaced by one of concern and disbelief.

Cradling his face in his hand, Floyd struggled to comprehend the sudden onslaught of pain. "What... the fuck," he gasped, each word punctuated by a wince.

Grog, towering and fuming, paced back and forth like a storm about to burst. "You think you can just roll into MY territory, spouting sass like you own the place? Pop trolls—nothing but a bunch of glittery weaklings, thinking they're all that with their shiny stuff and their sugary music. Well, not here, not in MY area! I don't take disrespect lightly, especially not from a pop troll who doesn't know their place. You're nothing here, you hear me? NOTHING!" His voice boomed across the market, his rage palpable, eyes blazing with an intensity that silenced the murmurs of the onlookers. "This is rock territory, hard and unforgiving, not some sparkly dance floor for you to twirl on. Remember that." His words hung heavy in the air, a declaration of disdain for all things pop in his rugged, untamed corner of the world.

Floyd, battered and in agony, with his nose broken and his leg shattered, his face a mess of blood and bruises, refused to succumb to defeat. Despite the excruciating pain, he rallied his spirit for a counterattack. With a burst of resilience, he shot his hair out like a lifeline, targeting Grog's neck, the strands wrapping tightly in an attempt to subdue the giant. For a moment, Grog seemed to falter under Floyd's desperate grip, but the brute's superior strength quickly became evident. With a fierce jerk, Grog tore Floyd's hair from his grasp, severing the vibrant strands. Floyd, feeling the acute loss as though it were a limb, wailed in anguish. The severing of a troll's hair, a deeply personal part of their being, inflicted a pain that was both physical and profoundly emotional.

In a display of sick, twisted satisfaction, Grog turned his attention to Floyd's wheelchair, the only thing that allowed Floyd a semblance of mobility and independence. With a cruel grin spreading across his face, Grog lifted his foot and brought it down with all his might, crushing the wheelchair beneath his heavy boot. The sound of bending metal and breaking parts echoed through the market, a cruel testament to Grog's brutality.

But as Grog reveled in his destruction, his moment of triumph was abruptly cut short. Out of nowhere, he felt a powerful force collide with his face, the impact staggering him backward. A sharp, excruciating pain exploded across his features, and when he reached up to touch the source of his agony, he felt a distinct shape imprinted on his skin—a hoof print.

Through the haze of his shock and pain, Grog heard a roar of anger, and as his vision cleared, he locked eyes with his assailant: Rebel. She stood there, fuming, her posture radiating pure fury and defiance. The unexpected counterattack left Grog screaming in a mix of rage and pain, his plan to dominate and terrorize now met with fierce resistance. Rebel had launched herself into the fray without hesitation, her kick a clear message that she would not stand by while injustice unfolded before her eyes.

Rebel stepped forward, her presence commanding, yet eerily calm in the wake of the chaos. The rage that had ignited her actions moments ago seemed to cool into a chilling, controlled demeanor. She fixed her gaze on Grog, who was still reeling from her unexpected assault, her eyes conveying a depth of resolve and menace that belied her tranquil posture.

"You know," Rebel began, her voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the surrounding tumult, "there's a thin line between bravery and stupidity. You just leapt over that line with both feet." She took a step closer, her eyes never leaving Grog's, her stare piercing through him like a sharp blade. "I suggest you think long and hard about your next move because if you so much as breathe in Floyd's direction again, I'll ensure that the consequences are... memorable."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the promise of retribution. It was clear from her tone and her posture that this was not merely a threat but a guarantee—a calm yet terrifying assertion of her capability to protect her friends and make anyone regret crossing her. Grog, despite his earlier fury and aggression, found himself unnervingly subdued under Rebel's gaze, a testament to her formidable presence even without overt aggression.

Barb, Riff, and Carol rushed over to the scene, their expressions a mix of concern and anger. Riff immediately scooped Floyd onto his back with a gentle yet firm grip, while Barb knelt beside them, dabbing at Floyd's bloody nose with a tissue, her movements careful and tender.

"Whoa, buddy, we got you," Riff said, his voice a mix of anger and concern.

Barb's voice was low and soothing, a stark contrast to the violence that had just unfolded. "Floyd, you're going to be okay. We're here now."

Carol hovered nearby, her usual flamboyance tinged with worry. "Oh, the horror! The absolute barbarity! To lay hands on such an exquisitely delicate Pop visage! Fear not, for we shall compose a ballad of revenge so dramatic, the very skies will weep at its telling!"

Meanwhile, Rebel and Grog were locked in a tense staredown. Grog towered over Rebel, his frame bulky and imposing, but Rebel's stance was unwavering, her gaze sharp and intimidating.

"You should pick your battles more wisely," Rebel's voice was calm but laced with an icy threat, "especially when one of them is the daughter of King Thrash. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear about your... hospitality."

Grog's anger bubbled beneath the surface, his fists clenched at his sides. The mention of the King, coupled with Rebel's unflinching demeanor, seemed to pierce through his rage. With a final glare that swept from Rebel to Floyd, he spat out a venomous threat. "If I ever see you again, Pop troll, it won't end well for you."

With that, Grog stormed off, each step heavy with restrained fury. Rebel watched him leave, her gaze cold and calculating until he disappeared from view. Then, she turned back to her friends, her expression softening as she approached Floyd and the others.

"Let's get out of here," she said, her voice a gentle command that brought the group together, ready to support one another in the aftermath of the confrontation.

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