Bob thought one of the most terrifying creatures in the world was the munchkin. With their beady eyes and their squeaky voices, they could sneak up on you, out of your peripheral vision and bite your ankles before you had a chance to run.
Bob would actually have nightmares about them, hundreds of them, gathered along brick roads of all colours, waiting to pound on innocent victims of healthy height and proportions. Sometimes, they would each carry a magic toothpick, far too short to be considered a wand, and use them to unravel all sorts of unholy magic.
Once, they had turned the sky to purple and made it rain miniature marshmallows. Bob had awakened in a cold sweat, his hair plastered to his skull, feeling as though he had just taken a bath in a hot pool of melted mallow. Another night, they had chanted his name, their voices a cacophony of terror, until the sound itself lifted him off the ground and slammed him back on his feet, over and over again, until he actually began to shrink in size, his body squishing together like a worn feather pillow.
At night, Bob had begun the ritual of taking a shot of vodka to try and soften his mind, quiet his fears, and best of all, muddle his imagination. Unfortunately, it hadn't kept the dreams away, only shortened their duration or made their effects less frightening.
Bob wondered how much more vodka might be required to cure himself completely of the munchkin plague, without actually turning him into an alcoholic.