"Don't open the door!"

"Just... Leave it!"
 For me, not wanting to open the door was a familiar sentiment. Today, however, it was Max voicing the command. He'd arrived at mine, looking rather flushed, about 5 minutes ago. He'd rushed in, drawn the curtains and tried to hide behind the fridge. Yanking him out, I'd placed him in a chair and asked him what was going on. Before he could answer, the ominous door had knocked, taking us neatly back to the start of our story.
 "Why? What've you done?"
 "Oh, don't ask. Just... Well, do you have an escape tunnel?"
I did, but I wasn't going to tell Max. I might need it one day, to escape him.
 "No," I replied. "You destroyed them all last year, when you pretended to be a Dwarfish miner in my backyard."
 By now, my cat-like curiosity had kicked in, and I was attempting to peer out, through the kitchen curtains. At first, I couldn't see anyone outside. But, looking down, I noticed my callers: Smurfs!
 A large, yet tiny, mob of Smurfs had gathered by the front door. Bearing pitchforks and burning torches, they were obviously pissed about something.
 "Seriously Max, what have you done now?"
Max, head in his hands, refused to answer. I watched the Smurfs: After a few minutes, they began to mill around, their anger replaced by boredom. A few more minutes passed, and the mob turned to leave as one. On the way out, they stopped long enough to tip over a gnome.
 Max, still at the table, refused to answer why the Smurf mob were after his blood, except to mutter occasionaly, "But they looked so tasty..."
 I expect they'll be back tomorrow. But I'm not worried, I've set the sprinkler system up in the garden. That ought to see them off...

What's with all the Childrens story references?

On my way to work (It's a plot device to move the story forward, don't ask where I work), I noticed a large group seemingly protesting outside a factory. Due to my cat-like curiosity, I decided to wander over and see what was occurring.
 As I drew closer, I made out a large group of people gathered outside the factory gates. The majority of them were white skinned and golden haired, short in size and dressed as thus: men wearing skins, women wearing leaves, and children dressed in nothing. Their placards showed they were on strike from the factory, which I noted make chocolate, whatever that was. I decided, being as I already mentioned curious, to enquire as to the situation.
 "Ah," greeted one of the protesters. "My colleagues and I are protesting for equal treatment of Oompa-Loompas in the workplace. Did you know, sir, that in the original text, we were black African pygmies?"
 "What do you mean, original te..."
 "And!" He cut me off, "we were forced to 'white up' to keep working? And the work! We're not even paid money! We're paid in cacao beans! They may be our favourite foods, but come on? Would you accept chocolate to do your job. I mean, what do you do sir?"
(See, you just won't leave it alone, will you? You just demand to know about my job. What if I do something you don't like? You'll have to stop reading. You'd regret asking then)
 "Anyway!" He continued, not waiting for my answer, "A film crew came in once, and he made us get spray-on tans! And dressed us in boiler suits!"
 I tried to back away, planning my escape, but he continued...
 "And the singing! He brings in children, you know! And the machines... They're not safe... they kill them! Kill the children... And he makes us sing about it! SING ABOUT IT!"
 Frantically, I turned on my heels and ran for it, and caught a bus to work.
(Fine, I'm a pimp. I make money exploiting vulnerable women, does it make you feel better to know that? Well, I don't really. But I could, for all you knew.)
Behind me, I could hear the Oompa-Loompa mob shouting about glass elevators, unsanitary chocolate production techniques, and golden parking tickets. I continued on the bus journey, afraid to look back, vowing never to talk to an angry mob again.
Unless it was either caused by - or out to get - me