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This one's been kicking around for ages. Yes, before you mention it, I write far too much dialog -- with Yankee (and some of the other stories I've got in progress) you see the third draft. The first draft's generally 80% dialog, the second has all the intervening bits added, and the third's the cleaned up version after getting a twice-over from an editor. This story, for reasons I never did figure out but accept anyway, takes place entirely inside an apartment. That's not to say that the characters never leave, nor that they don't interact outside the apartment, just that the reader never sees those bits. I expect that's a technique that's rarely, if ever, used for good reason, but what the heck. Never claimed this was high art. (Nor sober art, for that matter) A story in scenes of dialog "Who are you?" Mike stood dripping in the doorway of his kitchen, dressed only in a beat-up old Battlestar Galactica towel. "I'm an elf, kid. Haven't you ever seen one before?" "What? I don't believe in elves!" "Wouldn't worry about it. We don't believe in you, either. Got any beer?" He started rummaging around in the refrigerator. Clinks, thuds and the odd muffled scream came drifting out. "You really ought to clean this out more often," he said, eying something green, limp, and fuzzy on the middle shelf. "Wait a minute. Elves don't drink beer!" "We would if you kept this fridge better stocked. Nice towel, by the way. Quite the fashion statement." "What?" "Just don't believe I'm drinking a beer. It should be easy." The elf popped the top off a bottle of Sam Adams and knocked back half of it in a single gulp. Mike could see that he was quickly getting in over his head, so he decided to try a different tack. "What exactly are you doing in my apartment?" "Drinking beer, of course. Why, what does it look like?" "I was thinking in broader terms

(I should know better than to throw out offhand little things. Geeks, like magpies, are distracted by shiny things, and I'm very much a geek...) "I'm so glad you could make it," Harold said. "I've tried everything I could think of, but my roses keep getting worse!" "Don't worry, Mister Hargrave," said the gardener. He was wearing a green t-shirt with the 'Jake's Lawn and Garden' splashed over the left breast pocket. "I'm sure we can find out what's going on and get it taken care of." "Thanks, thanks very much," Harold babbled. "It's only a month until the garden show, and things were going so well this year..." The eponymous Jake patted Harold reassuringly. "No worries," he said. While Jake made a survey of the garden Harold paced nervously around his living room. He thought he'd had a chance this year, what with the MacKenzies off on their european tour, and Phil Brant on that white kick. He snorted at the thought. White. Sad color for a rose, and the flowers showed every blemish, no matter what you did. He jumped at the knock at the back door. Rushing over he threw it open and almost overwhelmed Jake, who stood there brushing the dirt off his hands. "What is it, did you find out? I thought maybe it was aphids, or Japanese Beetles, or some disease..." he babbled. "I think we've narrowed it down. I'll show you, and we can see about working out a treatment program," Jake said. He turned and went back out the back porch door, Harold trailing behind. The garden was indeed in terrible shape, the many rose bushes wilted and sickly looking. Jake squatted down next to one of the near bushes. "Now, if it were aphids you'd see 'em clustered on the stems. And if it were Japanese Beetles you'd see 'em all scattered around and humping. Randy little bugs. Not to mention you'd have the dead patches in the lawn and moles. You don't have moles, do you Mister Hargrave?" Harold blushed to the roots, knowing how he'd neglected his grass. "Only a few," he stuttered. "I think they come from next door." Jake glanced at the yard to the left. It was a mess, the grass a patchwork of species and weeds, with bright yellow dandelions scattered thickly across it. "I see,. Good thing they're mostly down-wind. Anyway," he said, turning to the rose bush. "What you have here is your garden variety orc infestation." "Orcs?" Harold asked, pulling back in astonishment. "Yep, orcs. See," Jake said, pointing at part of the ground with is toe. "You've got the classic signs. Burned out firepits, the gnawed bones of hapless forest creatures, and see, over there?" Jake pointed at a squirrel pelt that had been crudely cleaned, tied to a stick, and stuck into the ground. "Fetishes." Jake shook his head. "Stupid buggers, they--" He was cut off by a roar. Jake spun, pulled a gun from the back of his jeans, and fired, all in one smooth motion. Harold turned to see an eight foot tall humanoid figure with tusks and a face like a pig fall to the ground. There was a hole dead-center in its forehead. He watched with horror as the creature's body turned to brown goo and spread out into the ground. "You'll want to put some fertilizer down, the things really screw up your nitrogen balance when they do that," Jake said as he tucked the gun back into his pants. "Oh," Harold said, nearly speechless. "Will they be... difficult to get rid of?" "Ah, don't worry, they're easy enough to clean up. Couple of guys, some day-old pizza for bait, and we should have them cleared up in a few days." He gave Harold a reassuring smile. "Relax, we've done this plenty of times. Could be worse, you could have leaf hoppers. The plants'd be shot for the season if things had gotten this bad."