It would seem that somewhere near the city of Cambridge, between Cambridgeshire and  London to be precise, there was an abandoned washing machine situated alongside a forgotten tire on the road leading out of town. This particular stretch of road upon which the two objects in question sat was for the most part quiet and peaceful. The tire baked languidly under the noxious heat of the summer sun while the washer tanned on its side in the humid atmosphere.
This was the perfect place for a new home, thought the drifter as he chanced upon the washer tipped on its side. He dodgedly shifted over toward the broken machine, examining it from each angle, scrutinizing it so carefully, taking in each dent and ding, each reddened rust spot, every jagged edge.
“This is looks like a quiet spot,” said the drifter, deciding to indeed stay there for a spell. And just as he was about to set his deadbeat and rickety body down on the washer for a short respite from walking in the wake of the sun, a small grumpy voice shouted up at him from inside the tire.
“No, no, no you don’t!” grumped the granular voice.
The drifter peered over and into the tire and quite to his surprise, he found a goblin. The drifter rubbed his eyes with his soil-ridden fists and blinked hard at the little creature. Yes, it is a goblin, he thought. The goblin uncoiled himself from the fortification of the rubber tire and leaped up onto the side of the soft hot wheel. He humphed, placed his minuscule boney green hands on his hips and shot a despicable look towards the drifter.
“I’m getting damn tired of all you hobos and washer racers coming through here and trying to invade my privacy! This here,” he said triumphantly pointing a finger down at the tire he was currently standing upon, “is MY home. I live here. Me. So go and shoo yourself away and find yourself someplace else to melt to death.”
The drifter brushed his long nettled hair aside from his brow so as to obtain a proper look at the tiny angry sprite. “You’re a goblin,” was all the drifter could manage to say.
The little goblin was hopping mad. “Ha, shows how much YOU know! I, tramp, am a hobgoblin.”          
“And I, goblin, am not a tramp. I’m a traveler.” The goblin was taken aback by the drifter’s candor and had decided he’d had quite enough of his attitude.
“Same thing,” the goblin scowled. “You hobos with your brown coats and your musty hair and your evil stink.” He waved his hands wildly about in the air. “The bloody lot of you trying to steal my territory- well, let me tell you something, sir, I know faerie magic and if you so much as take a sniff at my tire, I’ll obliterate you,” he warned making a humourous bodily gesture.
Instead of being mildly repulsed, the drifter was seemingly interested in creating a proposition. “Very well,” he began. “I solemnly swear not to enter your territory and all the surrounding washers thereof if you grant me one wish.” The drifter sat smugly on the washer and crossed his arms waiting for a reply.
The goblin was completely outraged. “Who the devil do you think you are? I was here first!”
“And if you want me to leave you alone, you’ll gladly grant me a wish with your mysterious magicks, won’t you?” The drifter figured himself ingenious indeed for calling the goblin’s bluff.
The goblin tossed his head back in condescension. “Nothing in the world could make me-” and as the goblin was busy conceiting, the man reached forward and placed his forefinger onto the goblin’s black rubber home. In a fit of panic, the goblin hurdled down and vehemently kicked the man’s finger off of the tire. “Do NOT touch my circle!” he yelped, huffing out of breath from his heart pounding unremittingly inside his concave chest. “Fine, fine!  I’ll give you whatever you want just don’t touch my circle.”
The drifter was intrigued. “Why not? What is so special about this tire? Will the cosmos explode and all the stars collide if you leave it?” What the traveler considered to be a ridiculous and uproarious joke didn’t seem to be so amusing to the goblin. The imp instead anxiously chaffed his hands together and glanced shifty-eyed at his environs. His bulbous toes gripped at the rubber underneath his feet like the talons of a hawk to a freshwater fish. “Just what’s in that tire of that is so important to you, goblin?” asked the hobo, spying the unattractive sprite suspiciously.
“ME!” he hollered, “I’m important. And this is my circle of protection. Mine. Not yours. Do. Not. Touch. No touching!” The goblin hurriedly dusted off the spot where the man had handled.
“You mean to tell me that you believe this tire is some magical circle of protection and you live in it because you think it’s your defense from the outside world?” The traveler tittered faintly.
The goblin dropped his hands and nearly erupted in tears. “This isn’t funny, beggar!”
“Actually,” the traveler mused, “I find this brilliantly comical. Very well, I’ll leave you in peace if you give me one of your teeth.”
The goblin hung his mouth open in disbelief. “You can’t be serious?”
The beggar leaned back comfortably on the washer. “Of course I am.  A tooth from a faerie? That’s gotta be a lucky charm.”
“No way,” the goblin said, showing his back to the drifter. The man slunk down and pretended to yawn. As he removed his brown jacket and unleashed the smell of a day’s sweat from underneath is coat and into the air the goblin could stand the thought of the drifter remaining there no longer and he snapped. “Gah, fine!” he said, his voice heavy with defeat.
The goblin lifted his tiny fist and suddenly rapped himself firmly square in the jaw. Black and blue blood ran forth freely from his dark lips. He placed his fingers into his mouth and fished about in the mix of fluids until he produced a crooked discoloured incisor. “Here,” he mumbled. He extended his hand and gave over the tooth to the drifter. The man took the tooth, wiped it clean on his ragged pants, and placed it carefully into his breast pocket. “Now leave. You swore on it!”
“I did. Alright, a deal’s a deal. And just so you know, that tire isn’t magical. It only protects you because you think it does.” And with that, the drifter shambled along the road, leaving the Goblin to his own devices.
The goblin sighed and massaged his bruised cheek with his palms. “The things I do for you,” the goblin garbled.
“Hey,” echoed a voice from the innards of the tire, “if you were trapped in a transcendental hole, I would do the same for you, Loaki. Did you ask the beggar if he was a wizard?”
“He wasn’t,” said Loaki, thwarted. “Just a stupid hobo wanting to camp out on the washer.”
“Well it’s a good thing he didn’t open it,” continued the voice, “otherwise he would have found himself in a convergent universe.” The being caught in the dimensional fissure under the tire sensed Loaki’s disenchantment and attempted at consolement. “Don’t worry. Your teeth will attract a wizard sooner or later.”
The goblin shrugged his little shoulders and hobbled his way back into the sheltering inner ring of the tire.