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I turn off my TV and rub the side of my head while trying to get a grasp on everything Spencer’s telling me. I’m pretty sure he’s stoned. I mean, that’s the only logical explanation for it, right? Sane people don’t go around screaming about gnomes. That’s something a mentally disturbed homeless guy would shout at you as you’re walking downtown.

Last time I checked, Spencer wasn’t any of that, although anything could’ve happened during the time I was asleep.

“Spence? Buddy, are you on something?” I ask.

“What?”

“Are you on anything? I mean, did you take anything?”

He’s silent for a few, and then replies, “I smoked a joint, but smoking joints do not make you see vicious little gnomes, goddammit!”

He may have a point there, but I’m still convinced that something is making him hallucinate all of this. Even if what he told me held the slightest bit of truth to it, what did he expect me to do about it? What the hell did I know about getting rid of gnomes? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t find a how-to book on it or anything. Check online? Possibly, but any claims of gnomes would be from forty-year-old nerds still living at home with Mom while playing Dungeons and Dragons for the billionth time.

“Okay,” I say. “What do you expect me to do about it?”

“I want you to come over here and help me get rid of them,” he screams.

“And how am I supposed to do that, Spence?” I begin to rub my forehead again. Maybe I went a little overboard with the Jack Daniel’s last night. I swear that I didn’t have that much to drink, although I hardly had a bite to eat yesterday, so that could explain why I feel so shitty. It’s been rough on me, so I’ve been drinking a bit to try to numb myself a little. Of course, that never works.

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