The Goblin Nation's brief flirtation with entrepreneurship is over. Goblins across Mudwick Isle have retreated to their caves, convinced their lives are in danger, thanks to a relentless campaign by GNN warning of imminent peril outside.
"Stay inside, goblins!" one GNN anchor blared, voice trembling with feigned urgency. "The streets are a war zone! Every step could be your last! Artillery shells are raining from the sky, rogue pixies are on the loose and the very air is poisoned with fermented mushroom fumes!"
None of this was true, apart from the fumes. Combined with goblins' natural aversion to sunlight and fresh air, it worked. The new entrepreneurs abandoned their stalls and their dreams of financial independence.
"I was so close to my first sale," said one merchant, clutching a box of unsold Grungle-scented socks. "Then I saw the GNN report and realized my life was worth more than a few shiny pebbles."
The streets are now eerily silent apart from the echo of GNN broadcasts and the occasional whimper of a goblin cowering in fear.
The Goblin Council of Elders has commended GNN for its patriotic work. "GNN is a beacon of truth and stability in these uncertain times," said Elder Gnarltooth from his fortified bunker, over a fermented mushroom smoothie.
Grungle, the self-proclaimed King of Goblin Capitalism, has moved Garage Gab to a deeper, more secluded corner of the laundromat. His audience has dwindled to a handful of loyal and slightly paranoid followers, who listen with the lights off.
