Once upon a time there was an absolutely gorgeous frog named Enrique. The idea of an attractive frog might seem ludicrous, but you aren’t a frog, are you? Thousands of swooning lady frogs can’t be wrong; Enrique was hot. His bulbous eyes were perfectly round and always shone with a dreamy, sensitive cast. His luscious green skin had the ideal amount of slime to its texture. His webbed feet were large yet delicately formed, and left aesthetically pleasing prints in the swamp mud. Yet Enrique’s most remarkable feature was the brownish spots on his left shoulder. While his admirers frequently commented on the artistic placement of the spots, Enrique thought that when viewed from the proper angle, they looked rather like the Virgin Mary. He mentioned it a few times to his friends, but they only laughed and said, “Oh Enrique, that sense of humor is simply dangerous!” Humiliated, he told himself that they were just spots, not some grand proclamation of divinity, and followed his friends into their exciting and fast-paced nocturnal activities.

 

One night Enrique was lounging on his favorite crusty log, hoping to score. He’d prepared himself for yet another wild night on the swamp, carefully stretching out the balloon under his chin so it would swell to full capacity and impress the females. He’d recently started a little modeling work (nothing special, he liked to tell people, just a couple of spreads for Toad Today magazine), and modeling was much more tedious than he’d expected. He was exhausted but his agent had promised him a bottle of Jack Daniels, which was about three times his body weight, and he wasn’t about to let that opportunity go. The bottle now lay securely behind the log, and he was just about to pry off the lid when a shriek interrupted him. An old wrinkly frog cowered before him. “The chosen one!” the old frog wheezed. “Look, it’s the sign of the blessed Virgin! She speaks through this one!” The old-timer pointed a trembling finger* at Enrique’s left shoulder. A couple of nearby frogs glanced over. “Hey,” one said, craning his neck, “that does kinda look like the Virgin Mary.”

 

“Where?” asked his companion.

 

“Well, if you—here, come sit where I am. Ok, now turn your head a little—no, the other way—yeah, ok see that spot there? Ok, that’s her nose, and that one there is her ear –“

 

“Oh yeah, yeah,” said the other frog excitedly, “Yeah I see it now. Holy crap, I’ve never seen anyone with a picture of the Virgin Mary on their shoulder! Do you suppose–?”

 

The two frogs stared at him in awe. The old frog leaned against the log and continued to wheeze, with occasional mutters of “chosen … holy amphibian … tadpoles of doom …” Enrique stared back at them, unsure of how to respond. More curious frogs had gathered around his log, jostling each other for a glimpse of him. They seemed to be waiting for him to speak something profound.

 

“Uhh …” he said. The circle of frogs drew a collective, anticipatory gasp. “Uhh…” he repeated, scratching his belly nervously. “I, um, well I’m going over to that puddle over there.”

 

“The puddle!” someone shouted. “It’s the Holy Puddle of the Lord! He goes to contemplate! Tell us our future, oh Sacred One!”

 

Enrique snapped his head around angrily. “What the hell?” he said. “Don’t be ridiculous! Two minutes ago, that old geezer noticed my spots, and now you’re all following me and asking me to predict the future? I’ve known about these spots for years, but you all gave me patronizing little laughs! Yeah, I know what you all said about me! ‘Oh, that Enrique, such a pretty face but he’s got pond-scum for brains.’ Do you think I didn’t hear you? Well? Do you?”

 

In the silence that followed, he clearly heard the crickets and the cicadas. Someone flicked a tongue and the chirping stopped. The subsequent crunching irritated Enrique even more. “So yeah, you easily-led sycophants,” he growled, noting smugly that the majority of the crowd seemed perplexed by the word choice, “I am going to contemplate. I’m going to do what I should have done long ago—believe in myself and ask the Virgin what she wants of me, her humble servant. But I don’t have to share it with you. Get out of here!”

 

The crowd didn’t move and instead everyone waited patiently for Enrique to move towards the “Holy Puddle of the Lord.” Enrique sighed. “There’s a full bottle of whiskey behind my log,” he muttered.

 

The crowd scattered immediately towards the bottle, and Enrique lowered himself onto the grass beside the puddle. He tried to ignore the disgust and fury in his heart, closed his eyes, and called out to the Virgin. He used no elaborate incantations or frivolous props, only his sincere desire to serve the Holy One. Soon he heard an angelic voice.

 

“Enrique.” A lovely calm fell over him like soft blades of grass. “My beautiful little frog … you have finally come to me.”

 

“Yes, O Mary,” he whispered.

 

“Well,” the voice said, now sounding slightly perturbed, “that’s wonderful, but I’m afraid you’re too late.”

 

“Uh … what?” his eyes opened and he saw the Virgin’s outline. Though hazy, he couldn’t mistake the look of consternation upon Her Divine Face.

 

“How long have you know about the spots on your shoulder?” she demanded.

 

“Well,” he mumbled, scuffing his toes in the mud, “Um … abut 10 months, I guess.”

 

“Right,” the Virgin said sharply. “And ten months ago I was ready to tell you that your swamp was going to be annihilated to make room for a landfill.”

 

What’s a landfill? Enrique wondered, but the Virgin continued speaking. “If you’d called to me then, you could have warned your people and evacuated them to a new, safe home. But what did you do, Enrique?”

 

“I … um …” he blushed. “I started modeling.”

 

“And drinking whiskey,” Mary accused.

 

“Yeah.” He looked miserably around him at the swamp.

 

“You ignored the Divine signals, even though you knew they were genuine, Enrique. And you must know that I am truly sorry, but as you chose a life of debauchery instead of using your holy gift … well, now you lie in the grave you dug.”

 

The calm presence withdrew, the figure faded, and the frog’s shrieks were heard for miles as the bulldozers descended into the swamp. Enrique’s drinking buddies were consumed in a tangle of steel jaws and mud, while the handsome frog himself drowned in his own reflection as the giant wheels flattened him into the puddle.

 

Millennia passed, and an advanced reptilian race from a distant solar system began studying Earth. A team of archaeologists was dispatched into the swamp-cum-landfill, which was now a snowy wasteland. The reptilians used a heat-producing device to melt all the snow and produce a comfortable working environment. For several months they excavated the site. During the fifth month, a research assistant unearthed something odd. It appeared to be a hideously underdeveloped member of their species, yet it was not fossilized like the rest of the primitive creatures they found. It appeared to have perished only yesterday. The archaeologists stood around this curiosity, poking it periodically, but nothing happened.

 

“We will take it back to the mother planet,” declared the head archaeologist. “Perhaps it can be revived using our recent technological developments. Say … look at the markings on its shoulder. Looks kinda like … what was that god the primitives worshiped? The Sturgeon Larry?”

 

“Virgin Mary, sir,” said one of the assistants.

 

“Right, Virgin Gary. Interesting. It may be some sort of a holy relic. Well, send it home and let’s keep digging.”

 

Perhaps … just perhaps … Enrique the Handsome Frog would get a second chance to fulfill the destiny he so foolishly squandered. Unfortunately, the reptilians’ technology wasn’t so great and they failed to revive him. Because no one had a better idea, he was turned into a paperweight labeled, “Deformed Man; Virgin Gary” and presented to the head archaeologist’s father-in-law as a birthday present.

 

THE END

 

 

*Do frogs have fingers?

Tags: amphibians, religious //