THE FIVE MINUTE WAR

All manner of things might effect the length of a war, but most importantly scale....

The Gloggle was furious.

In the winter he was used to pied potatoes steeped in gingol essence and flavoured with mulberry seeds - and there were none to be had anywhere. It seemed the humans (curse their withers) had cornered the market in pied potatoes and there were none left for the Gloggle.

“There's only one thing I can do,” he told his female, a stonkingly beautiful other half with the pertest breasts the Gloggle ever had seen, and he'd seen a few. “There's only the one option and it's the last thing on my mind...”

“There's never much on your mind, beloved,” she crooned. “I've known whole weeks when you've had nothing whatsoever on your mind, and during such epochs it would seem that the last thing on your mind would occupy all of it and be quite spoilt for space.”

“That's all I ever get: criticism,” groaned the Gloggle. “I think I'll sally forth to the shops and purchase for you a micrometer screw gauge so that you can more precisely hone your indifference to my sensibilities.”

“Now you're talking twallop,” grinned his female, winking at the cat. “You'd best sally forth and do something about the availability of pied potatoes before nightfall or we'll both starve, and then what will you be able to do? There never was so much anger on the planet as that of a hungry Gloggle: I should know, I've seen enough outbursts or bursts out!”

“It will be war,” sighed the Gloggle. “The humans have been asking for it, Heavens knows. They've tormented us this past time of years and now it's the moment for retribution, which is why I've perfected my stock of thermonuclear warheads.”

“You've done no such thing,” chided his far better half. “If you had I'd have known about it. The closest you've got to a thermonuclear warhead is that old bow and arrow you polish down the cellar on weekdays!”

“Then I'll arm myself and be off!” thundered the Gloggle.

“You're so sweet when you're angry,” sighed his missus.

“I'm never sweet!” he roared sweetly.

He fetched his bow and one arrow from the cellar where it shone like burnished gold, and roared into the street on his unicycle.

“War is!” he shrieked, and a small boy of human proportions turned and stared at where he might have been. “Who said that?” he asked.

“Me!” thundered the Gloggle.”I can't see you,” said the boy. “This is so spooky I can hardly believe that it's happening! A voice thundering like a whisper, and nobody making the sounds!”

“I'm here!” roared the Gloggle.

But he knew he wouldn't be seen. He never was. Humans passed him by, trod on him even when they were looking, and none of them ever saw him. It was humiliating. It was infuriating. So, in order to vent his anger he took aim with his bow and single arrow and shot it full into the face of the small boy from a silly proximity.

And he missed!

He missed by a full flitch!

“Pied Potatoes, pied potatoes, pied potatoes,” called a voice before he could seek out his spent arrow lying a long jump from the small boy, and retrieve it. “Pied potatoes, lots of pied potatoes, free to a good home, bless you!”

The Gloggle couldn't believe his ears. It was as if the day had been leavened with magic and wonderment.

“Hey! That's what this war's all about!” he shouted at the purveyor of pied potatoes. “It's about the shortage!”

“Pied potatoes! Don't anyone want my pied potatoes, or must they go to the dump?”

The salesman strode past, a giant of a human with a matching stomach and two stomping feet.

“Pied potatoes... please...” begged the Gloggle as a sparrow picked up his spent arrow and soared with it in his beak, fine nest-building material if ever there was such a thing.

“There's a talking stone down here,” the boy told the purveyor of pied potatoes. “It says stuff, and I'm scared!”

“It's only the Gloggle,” the man assured him. “He'll be after some pied potatoes, that's for sure, and he can have these if he wants them, though I doubt he'll be able to pick them up.”

“Why, is he weak?” asked the boy.

“Nah. It's a question of scale. He's s smidgen of a fellow, smaller than an ant, but he loves these here potatoes. Can't get enough of them, never has been able to.”

“Oh,” said the small boy.

“I'll leave these here,” sighed the pied potato man. “You see �" they'll be gone by morning, and the war will be over, see if it isn't.”

“That's good then,” sighed the boy, and he ran off, like a dart, past the Gloggle's home and into another world where potatoes are never pied and wars are constantly being waged over a great many uninteresting and unimportant things.