D and I were sitting in bland TGI Friday’s-style restaurant when we started thinking about how often parents expect their children to carry on the family business, despite whether or not the kid is interested in it or good at it.  What happens if more nefarious parents wanted their children to carry on the family “business” of some horrible crime?  Might such a character dutifully try, fail, and eventually find his or her own path in life?  We started listing all the ways the children of a serial killer might fail miserably.  Thus, Bertrand was created.

Today I said, “I don’t know.  Do you think my humorous story about a failed serial killer is offensive?”

“No,” said D.  “I don’t think it’s offensive at all.”

Then we realized he was wearing a Johnny the Homicidal Maniac t-shirt (hilarious yet twisted graphic novel from Jhonen Vasquez).  So perhaps he’s not the best judge of such things.

Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t post it here.  I just know that if my nemesis tries to frame me for a heinous crime, the media will be crawling all over this blog (Ooh!  Publicity!) screeching, “Look!  Her blog has stories about serial killers!“  In which case I’ll have to wonder if this story will be more or less incriminating than satanic marsupials, death by fuzz fuschia bikini, and engaging in conversation with spambots.

At any rate, enjoy a little Halloween horror/humor, and know that it all ends well for everyone (well … the bugs might have something to say about that).   It’s a bit long, so I gave it tiny little chapters.

BERTRAND THE SERIAL KILLER’S BAD DAY

“Killin’ ain’t easy,” Bertrand’s dad had said just before the execution.  “It’s messy and it kinda smells bad, and your victims say some awful mean things to ya.”  Strapped into the electric chair, he had locked eyes with his son and rasped, “But son, don’t forget your Daddy.  Carry on my legacy!”

What do you say to a thing like that?  If you were Bertrand, you said “Yes, sir!”, knowing that one must never disobey one’s parents.  And that is why, eight months later, Bertrand carefully placed his Daddy’s old butcher knife in his knapsack, dressed in his best —and first — killing outfit like an uncomfortable schoolboy in his Sunday best.  Trembling just a bit, he stepped onto the busy city sidewalk.  He had worked on his plan, which he called “Operation Serendipity,” for weeks. He ducked into a phone booth, closed his eyes, and ruffled through the pages to choose the location of his first victim.  He stopped on a whim and looked at the address under his finger.  What luck!  An address not ten blocks from home.  “I can do this, Daddy!” he proclaimed as he dashed down the street towards destiny.

1.  Thwarted by Suicidal Tendencies
The house was disappointingly easy to enter, and this dashed his hopes for a grand, door-kicking entrance worthy of the best action movie.  The door was unlocked.  “In this neighborhood?” he muttered.  “Man, that’s suicidal.”

In the tiny bathroom, a thin man with a razor in hand sat by the bathtub.  Bertrand took out his butcher knife and stood awkwardly for a moment.  How did one begin a murder?  He cleared his throat.  “Uh …I’m here to kill you.”

The man jumped up.  “You are?  Oh, thank god!  I’ve been trying to kill myself for two days now, and I keep losing my nerve.  I just can’t deal with this cruel world anymore.”

Bertrand stared open-mouthed.

The man walked over and clasped Bertrand’s hand.  “You are like an angel sent from heaven to help me leave this awful place.”  He leaned over to kiss Bertrand’s cheek.

“Aggh!  No kisses!” cried Bertrand, backing away.  His father had always made serial killing sound so glamorous.  Serial killers were supposed to enjoy killing their unwilling victims, and the victims were supposed to play their roles correctly.   This guy was misbehaving and worse, he was affectionate!

Bertrand fled the way he came, disappointed that Operation Serendipity encountered a hitch already.  He could hear the suicidal man calling him back, but he didn’t stop.

2.  Defied by Inconvenient Expirations
Back in his own neighborhood, Bertrand stared at his reflection in a shop window and said, “Cheer up, old boy.  Of course killing is hard for beginners.  Chin up!  Try again!”  So Bertrand went back to the phone booth and chose another address.  This address was farther away, and Bertrand was weary when he arrived.  The door was locked, but his exhaustion prevented him from kicking in the door.  Instead, he crawled through an open bathroom window.  He landed in the toilet, soaking his new shoes.  How upsetting!  He had bought them especially for killing, and now they were ruined.

As he walked into the hall, squishing with each step, a woman standing at the kitchen counter looked up.  “I am here to kill you!” said Bertrand.  This time, he chose what he hoped was a more menacing manner.  The woman screamed and looked frightened, but Bertrand’s success was short-lived.  The woman clutched her chest and shouted, “My heart!”  as she collapsed.

He didn’t even have time to get out his butcher knife.  “Oh no!” he groaned.  “Don’t die, lady.  You can’t die yet!  I have to kill you!”  He tried to recall his high school education in CPR, but could  only watch the woman expire on the tiled floor.  Bertrand sighed walked into the apartment lobby.

3.  Rejected by Tiny Ruffians
Whatever should he do?  It was no time to be gloomy, he decided – it was time for creativity and thinking outside the box!.  He glanced around for inspiration and noticed group of children playing in the unattended lobby.  Easy pickings, he thought.  Maybe this was the perfect setup for his first murder.  Perhaps he’d been too ambitious earlier.

He burst into the play circle and held up his butcher knife.  “Gonna kill you!”  he shrieked.  The children looked at him in silent skepticism.   “What?”  he frowned.

“That ain’t a real knife,” one helpful rug rat said.

In horror, he looked at his treasured butcher knife.  He had accidentally grabbed his favorite Halloween prop, the one that worked so well for his annual “Mad Serial Killer” Halloween costume.  How humiliating!  And to think that he’d already threatened two people with it this evening.

“Ah … uh … that’s right!  I was going to …to… play with you.”

“We don’t wanna play with you,” the oldest kid snapped.  “You got funny hair and you smell like pickles.”

He had, in fact, eaten pickles.  It was a bad habit of his, eating an entire jar of Kosher Dill pickles for supper.  However, he didn’t think there was anything wrong with his mullet.  The kids picked up their marbles and left, muttering among themselves.

4.  Bedeviled by Bullets
He trudged home to his room.  He was having a decidedly bad night. Being a serial killer was so hard!  Daddy had always made it seem graceful and easy.  “Maybe I’m not cut out for this,” he thought and then corrected himself with, “No, I’m not a quitter.  So what if I screwed up on the knife?  I have a gun, too!”  He rummaged through his closet until he found his father’s old gun gleaming cool and bright.  He smiled.  There was always another path to choose.  And why the elaborate ritual of finding an address in the phone book?  Why not just find the first house that called to him?  He wandered until he found a townhouse on a quiet corner.  Perfect.  He strode confidently through the front door, surprising a young couple watching television.  “KILL YOU!”  he shrieked, pulling the trigger.  Click.  Furious, he pulled the trigger again and again, but only clicking ensued.

“I …” the young woman stammered, dropping her knitting needles.  “I don’t think it’s loaded.”

A long silence filled the room, broken by the sounds of Star Trek on TV.  “Most illogical,” commented Mr. Spock.

Bertrand hung his head, pressing his hands to his temples.  How could he forget to load the gun?  What kind of a crappy serial killer was he?  Stunned by his own ineptness, he fled back into the night.  He was so glad his Daddy couldn’t see his failure of a son.

5.  Apprehended by Elderly Attitude
As he passed an old movie theater, he saw an advertisement for Friday the Thirteenth XXXII:  No, We’ll Never Give Up.  He paused.  Was the universe encouraging him to not give up?  He studied the poster.  Maybe he needed to add more drama to his technique.  He’d been taking the direct route, but people enjoyed costumes and special effects.  Inspired, he dashed home and again rummaged around until he found an old catcher’s mask.  It was a little small (he’d had it in Little League) and of course it wasn’t a hockey mask like in the Friday the Thirteenth movies, but it would do.  And this time, he’d load the gun.

Pleased with himself, he walked back outside and scanned his neighborhood, hoping for a psychic “killer’s intuition” about the best victim.  There!  The last house on the left, that would do.  He donned the mask, wincing at the tight fit, and burst into the house with gun held aloft.  An old woman sat grooming a small dog, which began yapping immediately.  Bertrand shouted threateningly, “I’m going to ki–” but he stopped, gagging as the catcher’s mask caught on his large, buckish teeth.  He tried moving his jaw, but the mask was stuck good.

“Oh my, Muffin!” said the old lady in a tremulous voice.  “I think that young man is trying to kill us!  Oh!  Oh!”

Bertrand dropped the gun and wrestled with the mask, which was quite painful against his teeth.  The little dog launched itself at him, propelling Bertrand backwards into the open window.  He crashed through the screen and the sash slammed shut on his ankle, leaving him dangling from the window as Muffin gnawed on his exposed leg.  He twisted around, still struggling with the mask, and saw the old lady totter to her feet and shuffle to her walker.  He heard the squeak and thump as she inched across the floor, out the door, and down the sidewalk.  She paused underneath him and shook her fist while the little dog continued to bark.  “You young hooligan!”  she hollered in a reedy voice.  “You get out of my window!”  She watched him dangle for a moment or two, then said, “Come along, Muffin, we’ll get the police.”

Squeak, thump.  Squeak, thump.  He watched as she disappeared down the sidewalk.  After an agonizing quarter of an hour, the windowsill gave way and he plummeted to the ground.  The fall dislodged the mask, and he lay gasping for a moment.

6.  Foiled by Fashion
He climbed to his battered feet, dusting off his newly-torn jacket, which had also been a special purchase for the purpose of killing.  He sighed and once more began to trudge home.  He could think of nothing but the evening’s mishaps.  He passed bums and hookers who waved at him, but he didn’t wave back.  He passed drug houses and parks filled with gang members.  He saw two twelve year olds threatening each other with large semi-automatic weapons.  A tear fell from his eye as he walked past.  “Even kids can do better than I!”

Then a pale gleam caught his eye.  A figure stood in a building, distracted and unmoving.  Here was his chance –someone defenseless and unaware!  He fumbled with the gun and loaded it, then took careful aim at the figure.  He would be a stealth killer this time!  The guy would never know what hit him!  He let loose, screaming in relief.  Daddy would be proud this time!

But as the dust cleared, Bertrand realized his mistake. The building front said “Macy’s.”  The store mannequin’s trendy clothing was in tatters, and its head hung askew.  It glared at him in seeming contempt.

As the sirens began blaring, Bertrand ran, cheeks blazing.  “I give up, ok?”  he shouted to the quiet residential neighborhood he ran through.  “I give up!  I’ll never be a serial killer!”

7.  Pestered by the Paranormal
As he ran, he began to calm down.  The problem, he realized, was the city with its cold bright lights, jaded people, and many distractions.  What he needed was quiet and tranquility to clear his mind.  It was foolish to start his career in an urban area.  He slowed as he reached the outskirts of town, where large oak trees grew, a creek burbled, and city lights twinkled in the distance.  As he walked deeper into the wilderness, he heard grunting and saw two large figures in a clearing.

“Oho! A lover’s lane and an amorous couple!”  To cut is teeth on something so classic would be wonderful, but his gun was empty and he was without his knife.  What to do, what to do?

“Be creative, Bertie!”  he whispered.  “What do you have in your knapsack?”  Silently, he took it off and sorted through it.  Playing cards.  Peanut butter sandwich.  Anatomy book.  Michael Jackson CD.  Rope.

Rope!  He had learned how to tie a noose in the Boy Scouts when other kids struggled with simple nautical knots.  This was his chance to shine!  Any old serial killer could stab and shoot.  It took real talent and creativity to use a noose.

Smiling, he approached the naughty couple.  But as he approached, the man whirled around and Bertrand caught a glimpse in the moonlight.

It wasn’t a lovestruck couple … it was Sasquatch!

“OH SHIT!”  screamed Bertrand.  He turned on heel and fled through the forest.  The creature’s breath was on his back!  Could this night get any worse?  “Oh my god, oh my god, it’s all true, Bigfoot is real!”  The stench of the foul beast was unbearable.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he shouted as he stumbled over branches and shrubs in the darkness.  Was this his punishment for attempting to kill?  Could God have sent this thing to kill him, to show him what it was like to die?  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll give up killing, I didn’t want to do it, really, don’t eat me!”

8.  Mentored by a Murderer
And magically, the roaring of the beast faded as it lost interest.  Bertrand continued running until he collapsed near an isolated old cabin.  Chest heaving, he looked around him.  A pleasant glow came from the door and the gentle sounds of new age music drifted from the windows.  He smelled bacon and beans cooking.

Bertrand relaxed.  No Sasquatch here!  He peeked beyond the gingham curtains.  A grizzled old man sat reading a book by the light of a kerosene lamp.  Bertrand wondered if this defenseless grandfather was his last chance to prove himself.  He hesitated, fingers gripping the rope.  Hadn’t he just sworn in front of God and Sasquatch that he would give up on killing?  Wouldn’t it be good to put this failure behind him and just read a book like this old man?

But his father’s words echoed in his ears, and he knew he must honor his father’s memory.  He steeled himself to garrote the man.  He crept in through the shack’s back door, holding out the rope with trembling hands.  Sweat dripped from his brow.

And then the old man said without turning around, “Look around you, son.  You might reconsider.”

Bertrand froze.  Upon closer inspection he saw the man was reading a book titled The Lives of Famous Murderers.  One wall of the little cabin was covered with newspaper clippings, the most prominent reading, “Serial Killer claims hundreds of lives!”  It was directly under a scribbled sticky note that said, “That’s me!!!”  The opposite wall displayed a shelf of human skulls, and on the kitchen counter lay a handwritten recipe that read, “Long Pig with Lentils and Basil.”

Bertrand gulped and realized that yes, the night could get worse, and it had.  The man turned around and smiled, pulling a chair out from the table.  ‘Sit down, sit down,” he said.  “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“N-no thanks,” said Bertrand, sitting down.  It would never do to accept a drink from a serial killer.  He admired the man, he had to admit.  He had never considered poisoning.  How subtle and sophisticated!  He felt ashamed of his youthful blunders, kicking in doors and screaming.  How very childish.

The old man settled back in his chair.  “Now son,” he said earnestly, “why did you come in here to kill me?”

Bertrand looked down at the worn floorboards.  “I was going to be a serial killer,” he mumbled.

“Really?” asked the old man.  “Now why would you want to do that?  Being a serial killer is hard work.  You’re always on the run, always searching for that perfect victim.”  He paused, then leaned forward.  “The perfect victim never came, did he?” he said softly.

Sniffling, Bertrand shook his head.  “I … I’m a failure.  Daddy would be so ashamed of me if he could see me now.”

“So your daddy was a serial killer, was he?”  Bertrand nodded.  “Oh, now don’t say that you’re a failure, young man.  You’re not a failure.  You’re just trying to live up to an ideal, trying to make your daddy proud.  But you know what?”

Bertrand looked into the man’s wizened old face.  “What?”

“Serial killin’ ain’t for everyone.  Hell, if every Tom, Dick, and Harry did it, there’d be no one left to kill!  It’s hard work, and to tell you the truth, I gave it up myself.  Just ain’t worth the trouble and after awhile you start regrettin’ it all.”  He smiled.  “Tell you what, son, you need to channel that killin’ energy into something productive.  I mean, serial killin’ ain’t exactly lucrative.”  He gestured to his meager cabin.  “You ever thought of a career in pest control?”

Bertrand frowned.  “Pest … what?”

The man slapped the table enthusiastically.  “You know who needs to die?  Now it ain’t poor widows, high school lovers, or random people on the street.  It’s roaches!”

“Roaches?”

“Roaches.  Think about it.  Goddamned bugs all over the place.  No respect for humanity, always crawling wherever they damned please, spreading disease.  Give ‘em even a little slack and the next thing you know, they’re in your bed!”

Bertrand considered it.  Roaches were disgusting creatures indeed.  In fact, the more he thought about it, the angrier he got.  Roaches crawling around like they owned the world, congregating in the night like vampires!  Why, THEY were the ones who needed to die!  Whatever made him think that innocent people needed to die when the real jerks were swarming around on floors across the country?

The old man nodded.  “That’s right, son.  You start thinking for yourself, and let your Daddy’s memory rest.  He’ll be proud of you so long as you’re killing something.  Do some good in the world.”

Bertrand leaped to his feet and shook the old man’s hand.  “Thank you, mister!  I can’t tell you how grateful I am!  I … I never wanted to be a serial killer, not really, and now you’ve given me a new path!”

The old man walked Bertrand to the door.  Bertrand, who was busily planning his new business and dazzled by visions of gas masks and roach motels, did not hear the old man murmur, “Kid’s too skinny to make good stew anyway.”

And from then on, Bertrand no longer aspired to kill fellow human beings.  He became a passionate exterminator and the sole proprietor of “Bert’s Bug Killing.”  He loved the sight of dead roaches, and the relieved smiles of his customers.  He killed every day, and enjoyed every moment of his life, which was tragically cut short by all the chemicals he inadvertently inhaled daily.  However, Bertrand died happy and in service to the good of mankind, and that is a life worth living.

Tags: Extreme Optimism, Mythological Mishaps, Rampaging by splarks
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The sun sank low on the dirty gray horizon, and Ulrich watched the tiny glows of the fairies rising into the sky as they hurried to their assignments.  He imagined the fading red rays shining on their iridescent wings, and he craned his neck to stare at his own bedraggled wings hanging rodent-like down his back.

“What you lookin’ at, Uls?” his friend Marv asked.  “You ain’t got no new boils or rashes.”  He patted Ulrich’s back apologetically.  “Sorry.  I mean, you still look hideous and all, don’t worry.”

Ulrich sighed.  “What do you suppose it’s like?” he asked wistfully.

“What?”

“Being a tooth fairy.”

Marv guffawed.  “Oh man, I bet it sucks.  Flying around on paper-thin wings – probably get caught in tree branches all the time, and I hear they get fired if they don’t stay pretty.  You got to sneak into the kid’s bedroom without settin’ off alarms or getting chewed on by the family dog.  Then you have to crawl into some snot-nosed brat’s bed, squirm under the pillow without getting caught or crushed, grab some half bloody tooth and stuff it in your bag, and then YOU have to pay for the privilege of returning the teeth to the Mother House.”

“But they’re so beautiful …”

Marv stood up and shouldered his arrow sling.  “Yeah, they are.  But I’d take making elf-locks in babies’ hair any day.  At least you can stick around to see ‘em cry.  A goblin needs to see the results of his handiwork, you know, job satisfaction.  Anyway, see you later, Uls.”  He scampered off with the usual joyful squeal.

Ulrich looked down at his copy of “Dognirpook’s Guide to Torturous Knots:  the best knots for fine baby hair and beyond” and sighed.  Was there some law relegating goblins to spilling milk and knotting hair?  His wings were only good for flying a few feet off the ground, unlike the sinuous, glittering fairies flying high above the trees.

“I wish there was some way for me to join them,” he mumbled to the empty forest floor.  “I know how to scramble into dark places.  I know how to avoid detection – goblins are great at that!  And I could do so many artistic things with baby teeth.  This job is wasted on the fairies!  They probably cry after every assignment because their little flower dresses get crumpled,”  he grumbled.

Suddenly a voice rumbled from the tree he was slumped against.  “Fine idea, Ulrich, but you cannot fly as the faeries do.  It would take you too long to reach your destination.”

He recoiled in shock and stared open-mouthed at the tree.  There had not been a talking tree in the forest for eons.  “What, you’ve just been sitting around for the past 300 years without saying a word?”

“Goblins rarely have anything interesting to say.  You’re always bragging about turning milk sour and stealing chicken eggs.  Your species as a whole has low ambition.  Except for you, Ulrich.  You’re most fascinating with this foolhardy desire to be a tooth fairy.”

Ulrich scowled in consternation, nervously shuffling his feet.  Great, now the whole goblin village would hear about his unorthodox desires.  He’d be a laughing stock!  He could already hear the crowd at the goblin pub, chortling and throwing dead flower petals at him in mockery.  “Uh, yeah.  Thanks and all, but could you keep that to yourself?  It was just a silly idea.”

“It isn’t, my goblin friend.  I’m going to help you.”  And with this, Ulrich grew queasy.  The ground seemed unstable and he stumbled, smacking his head on a sturdy tree branch.  His vision grew dark and he remembered nothing for several hours.

When he awoke, he rubbed his aching head.  “Hey, what kind of help was that, you jerk?” he shouted, but the tree was silent.  Could he have imagined it all?  Perhaps he’d hit his head and dreamed the whole thing.  He reached back to scratch an itch behind his shoulder blades.

He froze in astonishment.  From the site of the itch sprang a third wing!

He screeched!  His wings, including the new one, jerked involuntarily with fright.  First in fear, and then with growing delight, he flexed his new wing.  The muscles were long and powerful.  Perfectly capable, in fact, of -

“HAULING MY GOBLIN HEINIE ABOVE THE TREES!” he crowed.  The extra wing-strength sent him careening into the air, propelling him through tree leaves and birds’ nests.  “Sorry!” he called to the angry avians as they dove to repair his damage.  “New wings!”

Such fabulous wings!  He soared into the clear air and his goblin village dwindled below.  Without the haze of the never-ending fires, the horizon was a delightful pink and purple, not the dull gray he was used to.  He smelled clear air instead of the stench of bone stew and smoke.  By flexing one wing up and the other two down, he flew in a lazy circle, which he did blissfully until a collision sent him sprawling into a tree branch.

“Oh!  My!  I’m so terribly sorry!” cried a velvet voice.  He tried to catch his breath as he hung limply from the oak tree branch, and saw a flutter of shiny wings and glittery skin.

“Did I hurt you?” asked the voice – a fairy’s voice, he realized with excitement.

“No, no, I’m fine,” he managed.  He pulled himself up the branch and crouched.  The fairy’s smile, which had been beaming brightly and apologetically, faltered.

“I … I seem to have dirtied your … um … dress …” said the fairy in distress.  Her eyes traveled over his goblin loincloth in horror.  “You’ll be let go if you return to work in that condition!  Oh, do let me help you.”

“Oh.  My dress, right.”  He coughed and raised the pitch of his voice.  “I am so clumsy for a fairy, yes indeedy!  I am always messing my pretty shiny outfits.  Where might I get another, dear fellow fairy?”

The fairy looked troubled.  “I’m sure it’s difficult to find clothes in your size.  But perhaps we can stitch together a dress of flower petals and tree leaves.”  The fairy extended a graceful hand, which Ulrich shook enthusiastically.  The fairy winced, but politely led the way through the forest, flying in fluid arcs as Ulrich followed in a bumblebee-style, narrowly missing branches and spiderwebs.  “We’ll stop at the Fairy Fashion Tree,” she chirped brightly.  “The Fashion Fairy will be able to help us!”  They touched down.  Ulrich stared slackjawed at the giant sycamore adorned with wispy moss and flowering vines, and especially at the stream of fairies and pixies wandering in and out, all arrayed in carefully-fitted flower-petal attire.  He ducked under the low door frame as they entered the shop, trying to ignore the stares and shocked murmurs.

A pixie in a magnolia dress lounged languidly in a clamshell, her perfect complexion offset by the gleaming mother-of-pearl.  Her bored face brightened as she saw the fairy who led Ulrich.

“Rosehippina!”  she cried, her voice like birdsong.  “How lovely to see you!  You look splendid, darling.  Oh!  And you’ve brought …”  she gaped at Ulrich.  “You brought, a, um … um …”

Rosehippina turned to Ulrich.  “Oh I’m terribly sorry!  I didn’t catch your name.”

Ulrich froze.  A name?  He needed some ridiculous, sappy fairy name quick!  “Uh .. Huggy … Fluff-Berry?”  He cringed.  Goblins did not hug, nor did they eat berries, nor did anything fluffy adorn their abodes.  But he knew he’d have to make some sacrifices if he wanted to be Tooth Goblin.

The two fairies nodded.  “Rosehippina, dear,” said the Fashion Fairy, “would you come here momentarily?  Let us converse about what might best flatter Sister Fluff-Berry’s figure.”  They disappeared behind an embroidered curtain and Ulrich toed the carpet nervously, disrupting the delicate weave of maple stems and moss.  Ulrich tried not to eavesdrop, but their bell-like voices carried well.

“…know she’s surprisingly large and perhaps a bit ungainly, but we must help …”
“…face will make children scream!  We can’t ….”
“…fairy creed of sweetness and light, and we must obey or ….”
“…could use a bark dress, they aren’t so fashionable but …”
“…add a little lily pollen for color and accessorize with sweet grass …”
“…go for a more earthy look to compliment her hair color …”

The curtain shuddered and fluttered, and Ulrich heard sawing, popping, and cracking.  When the fairies called him inside, the light was blotted as they immediately yanked a rough dress over his head.  He sputtered as they dumped bright pollen over his scalp, and as he wheezed, they deftly wove a necklace of grasses and leaves around his neck and wrists.

“Oh dear!”  fretted the Fashion Fairy.  “You have three wings!  We’ll have to modify the dress to allow for them.  How ever did you gain a third wing?”  She began cutting the bark dress carefully.

“It was a gift from a leprachaun,” he said, pleased with his quick wit.

“A leprechaun!” cried Rosehippina.  “Oh, I’ve heard they’re dreadful.  Well, how lovely that diversity flowers and even those we view as ill-tempered still have a compassionate heart, is it not, dear Sister Huggy Fluff-Berry?”

“Oh yes,” he said, his voice squeaking as the Fashion Fairy yanked on a tangled lock of his hair.  “Lovely.  They’re not bad, actually, taste like – ”

“The Fashion Fairy looked alarmed and dropped her twig comb.

“I mean they have taste!  Very fine taste like you fairies.  They often dine on gardenias and, erm, unicorn hair, and wear fancy leggings made from, uh ….”

The fairies giggled.  “Oh my, well that certainly explains their disagreeable demeanor!” said Rosehippina, tinkling merrily.  “Everyone knows that unicorn hairs taste wonderful but simply don’t digest.”

“Oh,” said Ulrich as he surveyed his new look in the mirror.  “Well I never realized that.  No wonder my guts are always rumbling after a unicorn meal.”  He noticed the fairies eyeing him suspiciously.  The Fashion Fairy hurried to her rose quartz counter and pulled out a handbag made from pastel flowers.  “Here, dear sister, we notice you have no Tooth Collecting purse.  You must have lost yours in the collision.  I’ve an extra that will soon wilt, but it will do for now.”

Rosehippina gazed at him and smiled.  “There, I do say that you are not exactly the kind of fairy that will be sent to the most fashionable dwellings, but you certainly look presentable.  I hope you can forgive me for my careless flying today.”

“Oh, of course,” said Ulrich heartily.  “I am grateful for your special fairy happy smiles!”

“As we are with yours, dear Huggy.  You are very special!  Now, off to the Mother House with you.  It’s time to get your assignments!”

And with a smile, Ulrich squeezed out the door and traipsed down the stone path to the shining crystal palace.  He would soon see Tooth Action!

***

“…and that why, Marv, I aint returneen to Gobblinz Hal.  Plees take care of ChiChi, my cokroche.  He likes ded squirell for brekfest, butt sumtimes eets rottin appels.”  Ulrich put down the pen and re-read what he wrote.  He inhaled the stench of the substandard cafeteria food, and smiled as he listed to the angry talk of the children in their barred rooms.  He continued.  “It iz sumtimes hard to get into these playces, but I like the challung.  The Muther Fary always say ‘Eeven juvnile deelinquints need Tooth Farys, too.  Bring them hope fer better lifes, and quarters.’  Sumtimes I leave cigarettes, tho.  I will not reeturn, becuase I now Sister Huggy Fluff-Barry, Tooth Gobblin.  Send my luv to ChiChi.

Yers Truly,

HUGGY/ULS

P.S.  Next time yoo kill unicorm, pleez leave entrails by old oak tree across frum Gobblin Central.  Tell it thanks from Uls.”

Tags: Extreme Optimism, Mythological Mishaps by splarks
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Oh my. I found an old story that Dave Goff from Gestalt Digital (www.gestaltdigital.com) kindly formatted and found pictures for several years ago. I thought I had lost it forever, but no, it lives in infamy and I’ll post the scanned copy here to amuse/horrify/stupify you. Happy Holidays!

Tags: Alien Oddities, Bizarre Animal Stories, Extreme Optimism, Rampaging by splarks
1 Comment »