The Troll sat under the bridge for almost a week before anything passed above. He was near ready to give up and go back to school, finish his degree in anthropology like his Mom wanted. Bridge hunting was in his blood, though. His Father did it, his Grandfather did it. He needed to at least try it out and see if he could make a go of it before he settled for a life of mundanity, brushing dust off shale pressed plants, and the occasional broken pot piece. Stepping out of the shadow of the bridge he called out, “Who dares walk my bridge? I shall kill you and gnash your bones until…” but he stopped because it was not a human at all but an old Billy Goat. They locked eyes like they were fighting over the last peanut in a bowl at a dirty bar on a weekday afternoon- maybe a Thursday. And in a blur of grey and beard, the Goat was off; the Troll felt a pain in his left leg, and was suddenly in the air. The Troll had not yet reached the zenith of his arc when he had already decided school was his destiny. And besides, he needed to finished watching the West Wing, anyway.