Garden Gnomes

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Eventually I got tired of watching him watch the yard, so I cleared my throat. He jumped, gave one last look out the window, and then turned to me; I gave him my best attempt at a smile, though it was probably looking pretty threadbare by this point. "Honestly, Mr. Pratchett. I don't think the gnomes are actually trying to kill you."

"Exactly!" he hissed, thrusting a finger towards me. "You don't think the little buggers are up to anything, which makes it all the more easy for them to work unnoticed beneath your very nose!"

"Aha." He turned back to the window, apparently well satisfied with his logic. Granted, it was pretty hard to argue with on anything resembling rational grounds, but I still gave it a shot. "Or maybe it's just that they're not up to anything at all. I mean, how could you ever tell the difference?"

He grinned over his shoulder at me. "The tiger rock argument, right?" I stared at him blankly, and he continued. "I could show you a rock and say that it keeps away tigers. You might then ask how I know a simple rock could possibly do such a thing. And I would then reply that, well, I don't see any tigers around, do you?"

I nodded. "So the gnomes are like a tiger rock."

"No!" he exclaimed, whirling around again and beginning to pace the small room. "They're not, because while the rock has nothing to do with why there's no tigers in North Carolina, the gnomes are hiding something!"

"Yes, murderous intent, I know." I sighed. "And you know that it's not just that they're inanimate lumps of plastic because...?"

He returned to his post by the window, leaning in close, shoulders hunched. "Because of their eyes," he answered quietly. "Every once in a while, you can see it in their eyes."

Almost in spite of myself, I shivered.