The title of Elf-Kicker is a prestigious and lucrative royal appointment, held by a long line of distinguished gentlemen. It is not an easy career to hold, as there is grueling physical training the kicker must endure. Each day, at sunrise, they must journey to the East Teba potato mines, in order to kick the mine people in their keisters.
Originally, the Elf-Kicker would kick elves, but the original race known as the elven people was driven to extinction due to the Divine Wind shortage of 497. In light of this, a new species was conceived to be kicked and enslaved, and thus the yellow frog-folk of West Teba were rechristened as the Elven Folk of East Teba.
One morning, the Elf-Kicker rose from his bed to complete his duties, as was his royal prerogative. But, upon his awakening, he discovered that the boots he had set aside to kick with had gone missing. He searched up, down, left, right, backwards, forwards, and all around the swampland, but his search was for naught. The boots refused to be found.
This was especially unfortunate, as the Royal Inspector of Elven Kicking and Conch Shells had been sent from Elra to annually inspect him. If this man found that the Elf-Kicker had lost his boots, he may declare him an incompetent, and allow another man to take his post! The thought of this terrified the Elf-Kicker, and caused his futile search to become more and more fervent.
Eventually, the first fingers of the sunrise began creeping over the landscape, heralding the signal of his doom. The Elf-Kicker had no choice but to report to the Happy Cooperative Elf Potato Mines. But without his boots, the Elf-Kicker knew that he would have no chance of finishing the elf-kicking quota set before him.
Now, the Elves themselves understood the Elf-Kickers position. Sure, there was the fact that he came over to them every morning and kicked them to death, but it was just his job. Just like their job was to dig in the potato mines, drawing ever deeper into the land in the search of rich potato liberation. So, when the Elf-Kicker professed his dilemma to them, they made him an offer: Once, just once, they would assist him in his task.
And so, the elves began kicking. They kicked each other, themselves, and shattered their fragile legs on walls and trees. Soon, the scent of kicked-to-death elf permeated the air. So, when the Royal Inspector of Elven Kicking and Conch Shells arrived, he saw the land strewn with kicked-to-death elves, and awarded his greatest praise to the Elf-Kicker.
Eventually, boots were found, and kicking resumed as normal. But on some days, he might kick them a little more softly, in remembrance of what they had done for him.
They appreciated it.