In a long lost city, far far away from America, there resides a little man. He works on his motor bike steadily through the bitter winters and humid summers. Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is his bible, not only by birth but according to his trade, which (lucky man) is also his passion: motorcycle delivery of Thai food and soft drugs. We met him the way many met him, through the delivery of Thai food combined with the aroma of that which produces the hunger itself. As he entered our apartment for the first time he deeply inhaled the air and smiled, and then forgot to give us the egg-rolls we ordered. But he quickly returned, bag in hand!
"There is a surprise in there for you and your friends", said the man, he deeply inhaled "call me anytime...ask for the Evil Dwarf."
We stood in stunned silence as he left, rushing into the other room to open the bag and it seemed he HAD given us something extra. A fat little plastic bag with a strange herb. We began to call the Evil Dwarf a lot, he would appear on his motorcycle. The same motorcycle that would evade the police time and time again. The same motorcycle that needs daily maintenance like every other motorcycle owned by a dedicated owner. The Dwarf was always around, seemingly appearing from nowhere at times. My friend Tommy once saw him disappear. Once I had to introduce him to an important family member whom happened to be in the city. For he was indeed a friendly Dwarf worthy of introduction.
"What may be your true name Evil Dwarf", I inquired "give me your name, for I still do not know it (even after 9 months)."
He thought about it, his face turning to stone. His eyes seemed to be staring at nothing when he turned to me and spoke:
"Call me the Little Dwarf".
He truly believed that the worst word to include in his title was the adjective "Evil", the Dwarf part being a given.
Needless to say I did not introduce him. It was convenient because the country we resided in spoke a strange gypsy-derived language.