#trolls sid frett

[glitterp0prhaps0dy]

possible au?

im really tempted to make an au that shows what each member of brozone did during those 20 years apart: like floyd could been living with the rock trolls

and like how bruce and brandy met and fell in love

or what clays life was like with the putt putt trolls

and john dory? maybe something REAL angsty

is anyone intrested in this idea? is it something you guys would want to see?

[sonic-adventure-2-dx]

The Rock Trolls Introduction in Trolls: Holiday in Harmony !

[Image ID: Six gifs from Trolls: Holiday in Harmony. In the first gif, Barb waves Thrash and Val up to the camera. In the second, Val quickly puts up devil's horns and smiles. In the third, Barb puts up devil's horns while talking to the camera. In the third, Thrash slowly raises a blurred middle finger with an oblivious smile. In the fourth, Sid Frett looks surprised while standing at the camera to take the picture. In the fifth, Barb and Val look at Thrash in confusion, before a mountain of invites falls on them and the camera flashes, indicating the picture was taken. /End ID]

[glitterp0prhaps0dy]

King Thrash's Greatest Fear

Floyd and Barb lounged in the living room, engrossed in playing with a small, black, fuzzy bat, a pet-sitting favor for one of Riff’s friends, Sid Frett. Barb, in particular, was thrilled with the task, her desire for a bat of her own making her especially eager.

“Come on, Roxanne, you can do it! Catch the string!” Barb encouraged, animatedly wiggling a stick adorned with a string and ball in front of the bat. Roxanne, the bat in question, though advanced in years, made a valiant effort to engage with the toy, her movements slow but determined.

Floyd, too, lent his voice to the chorus of encouragement and buoyed by the support of both, Roxanne managed to latch onto the ball at the end of the stick. At this small victory, Barb let out a delighted squeal.

“You did it, Roxanne! Oh, who’s the best little bat? You are!” Barb crooned affectionately to the furry creature, gently petting her as she basked in the attention. Floyd, mindful of the bat's sensitive hearing, offered his applause in the form of soft, fingertip claps. Amidst this tender scene, the front door swung open to reveal the bat enthusiast’s father, KING THRASH, stepping in.

“Greetings, kids, how have you been—AAAAH!” His words cut short at the sight of Roxanne, the king let out a scream, promptly turning on his heel to race upstairs, where he secured himself in his room. This left Floyd, Barb, and even Roxanne, bewildered by the sudden exit.

"Sooo, your dad just... screamed and bolted like my little brother does when he sees a tarantapuff plushie," Floyd remarked, an eyebrow arched in amusement. Barb simply blinked in response, a bit puzzled herself, and shrugged. "I've never seen my old man freak out like that. Makes you wonder... what spooked him?" she mused.

"Well, let's piece this together; it must be something he saw that sent him sprinting. So, perhaps there's something unusual in the living room that scared him?" Floyd posited, touching a finger to his chin, lost in thought.

"Alright, detective mode on! I definitely don't want an encore of Dad hitting those high notes like a classical troll with a fractured wing," Barb declared.

As Floyd and Barb embarked on their quest to uncover the source of King Thrash's terror, they approached their investigation with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for finding lost remote controls.

Starting in the corners, Floyd peered behind curtains with the intensity of a cat stalking a laser pointer. "Maybe he saw his own reflection and got scared?" Floyd suggested, only half-joking, as he checked behind a particularly shiny vase.

Barb, meanwhile, dived into the piles of old records like a rock troll in a mosh pit, sending albums sliding across the floor. "Found anything?" Floyd called out. "Just Dad's old 'Hair Bands of the 80s' collection. Oh, the horror," she replied, holding up a particularly vibrant album cover featuring an excess of hairspray and leather.

Moving to the houseplants, they half-expected to find a creature from the depths of Troll Forest. Barb lifted a pot, only to find... "Aha! The lost city of...dust bunnies," she declared, uncovering a thriving civilization of lint and fluff. Floyd shone the flashlight like he was about to tell a ghost story, only to illuminate a very confused spider contemplating its life choices.

Inspecting the shelves, they handled each trinket as if it might explode. "This one looks suspicious," Floyd said, examining a snow globe. "Because it's from the 'world's most boring landmarks' series?" Barb asked, peering over his shoulder at a globe filled with the thrilling scene of a very flat and uneventful field.

As they checked the ceiling for airborne intruders, Floyd mused, "Maybe he saw a ghost? Or worse, realized he's been wearing his shirt inside out all day." Barb, wielding the broom like a sword, cleared away cobwebs, only to disturb a congregation of dust particles that glittered in the light like a disco ball gone wrong.

Finally, behind the TV, they hoped to unveil the ultimate horror. Instead, they found a lost pizza slice that had somehow mummified rather than molded. "Eureka! We've discovered the ancient relic of last week's movie night," Floyd announced, holding it up with a grimace.

Despite their exhaustive search, turning the living room into a scene of comedic chaos, they found nothing amiss. No beast, no ghoul, not even a mildly upsetting painting. They stood amid the disarray, a pair of intrepid explorers who had braved the wilds of the living room and emerged not with answers, but with an even greater mystery: What on earth had made King Thrash scream like he'd just seen the ghost of bad fashion past?

In a scene that would have stirred envy in the most dramatic of opera houses, Barb had collapsed onto the floor with the grace of a tragedy-struck heroine, her limbs sprawled in the timeless pose of despair. She lay there, a portrait of exhaustion, as if the very weight of their fruitless quest had crushed her spirit and pressed her into the floor's embrace. Nearby, Floyd, whose legs had long since surrendered to a more stationary life due to a calamity of their own, felt a weariness in his upper body that might rival the fatigue of marathon runners after their 26th mile. 

Yet, in this tableau of defeat, a small, fuzzy beacon of comfort made its presence known. Roxanne, the venerable and fuzzy bat, sensing perhaps that Barb needed a companion in her moment of dramatic desolation, cuddled up to her, a tiny creature finding solace in the company of a fallen rock princess.

It was then, amidst the silent camaraderie of defeat, that Floyd had his epiphany—a moment of such startling clarity that it might have illuminated the room better than any lamp. His voice, charged with the force of this revelation, broke the solemn silence. "Oh my SHUUUUGAR!" he exclaimed, a mixture of astonishment and humor lacing his words. "The only thing different here IS THE BAT! HE'S SCARED OF THE BAT!" With a dramatic flourish, he pointed at Roxanne, the unwitting harbinger of terror for King Thrash.

The absurdity of it all—of their exhaustive search, of the dramatic collapse, and of the tiny, cuddly creature being the source of such unfathomable dread—struck them. The scene transformed, from one of tragic exhaustion to a comedy skit that might have the audience rolling in the aisles. Roxanne, oblivious to her role in this revelation, simply snuggled closer to Barb, while Floyd and Barb were left to ponder the hilarity of their situation, the laughter bubbling up from within them like a wellspring of joyous relief. The living room, scene of their dramatic quest, now echoed not with the sounds of despair, but with the hearty, healing laughter of two friends united in the most unexpected of discoveries.

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Upstairs, in the fortress of solitude known as his bedroom, King Thrash was engaged in a heroic battle of his own. With the fortress gates (read: door) firmly locked against the onslaught of the world, our valiant king found refuge under his most trusted shield—a blanket of unparalleled fluffiness. In his arms, he clutched his loyal squire, a pillow of great comfort, as he braced for the siege of fears that lurked beyond the fabric walls of his castle.

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Meanwhile, back in the living room, a revelation struck Barb like a rogue note in a power ballad. "Wait... THAT'S WHY HE WON'T LET ME HAVE A PET BAT!" she yelled, the pieces of the puzzle crashing together with the subtlety of a cymbal smash in a quiet library. The realization dawned on her not like the gentle rays of the morning sun, but like a spotlight at a rock concert, blinding and undeniable.

The absurdity of the moment wasn't lost on them. Here they were, in a tale that no ballad or epic saga could hope to encapsulate—the story of a rock legend, his bat-phobia, and a pet that never was. Barb's proclamation echoed through the house, a mix of incredulity and revelation, as if she had just uncovered the secret to the ultimate riff.

Somewhere, in the depths of his fluffy fortress, King Thrash might have felt a disturbance in the air—a shift in the very essence of rock 'n' roll itself. And downstairs, amidst the remnants of their laughter and the shock of discovery, Barb and Floyd shared a look that said, "This is going to make one heck of a story at the next gig."

The saga of the bat-fearing king, the thwarted pet aspirations, and a living room investigation that would go down in the annals of rock history was born, not with a whimper, but with the uproarious laughter and the kind of absurdity that only true legends could inspire.

--------------------------------------------------------------Okay THIS is the shortest chapter iv ever done, but im treating you guys to a little fun in the story before..........well,😈