This was the woman whom they saw once a year for three hours every Christmas Eve, and who acted so put upon to have to host them for that long. It was three hours of noxious smells (from the surrounding moors everyone hoped), noisome complaints about the state of life in general and the yappy little dog she kept for company. The poor dog never seemed to leave her lap, being fed a constant stream of disgusting looking and smelling tidbits from a plate on the side table. If she had ever given the children even some token Christmas gift, a pat on the head or said a kind word, they would have been sure it was an imposter in her place.
This is the woman Neville now had to live with, for strangely John and Claudette had failed him miserably, in that they had left no will and no designated guardian. It was a gaping hole in their otherwise perfectly lived and planned lives, and the devoted care of their children.
Part 2.
At first, Neville hardly noticed (or smelled) his surroundings. He slept. He woke and got up. If there was food down in the kitchen, he ate. He kept completely to himself in the beginning and stayed mostly in his room high up in the castle-type house Aunt Clerdance kept as her home. He didn’t read, he didn’t converse, he didn’t do much of anything but mourn. Aunt Clerdance didn’t intrude, you might think out of respect for his grief, but that would take some human feeling of which Aunt Clerdance had none. She just didn’t care.
Children however are resilient. And Neville was taught a certain outlook on life that tended toward optimism. Eventually a feeling that a life well lived would be the best tribute to his parents and sister he could create started to take hold. One morning, after hearing kitchen noises, he went down to engage Aunt Clerdance in some plan for his future, and perhaps get to know the woman who was now his only living relative.
“Oh, it lives,” was all she said from the side table where she sat with the ever-present dog, as he entered the old, drafty kitchen. “I thought gremlins were stealing my food all this time.” For the first time in his short life, Neville was unsure of how to respond, never before having encountered personal disdain.
“Listen, boy, watch yourself around here, if you think that paltry monthly pittance your lawyers graciously allow me is enough to feed and clothe you and get you tutors and all, you’re sadly mistaken. 300 pounds isn’t what it used to be. This isn’t your parent’s house, you know.” She berated without even looking at him, more interested in her toast and jam. “And I don’t want to be hearing any noise. My Fifi doesn’t like noise, and I get sick headaches real bad, so I don’t want to hear any noise either, understand? And I saw that violin case you brought in, don’t even think about it,” She paused to take a breath and Neville mistakenly thought her tirade was at an end.
“And don’t be going out onto the moors, they are treacherous. About the only thing they are good for is to keep visitors away. I don’t need to have to be paying someone to go find your body out there. Best if you just stay upstairs in your room. I saw you brought some books so don’t be bothering with my library, either,” She finally finished, obviously dismissing him once again from her mind.
Neville was getting to know quite strongly that this was indeed, not his parent’s warm, loving home.
“And make sure you clean up after yourself, I’m not your maid,” She added with a sniff.
Neville turned and fairly ran up to his room. If Aunt Clerdance noticed, she gave no outward sign as she slurped down her morning tea and gave Fifi the last of her toast and jam.
Nothing his parents taught him prepared him for this new, empty life. With no love, no support but the mean basics, no stimulating discussions, no art or music, no new books, Neville fell into a fugue of staring out his window for most of the day into the cold, desolate moor. When even that became too much trouble, Neville’s mind fled, and then he ‘shrugged off this mortal coil’ completely.
Aunt Clerdance didn’t even notice until the smell that wafted from upstairs became the over-powering stench in the old house.
The End.
Olive
There once was a story told about a poor shoemaker, his kind wife and some industrious dwarves who helped out with the work. You may have even heard the story yourself, for as all great and true stories, it has spread the world round. Yes, the story of the dwarves and the shoemaker is a true story, but most of the facts have become a little skewed over time.
Foremost, in the story the dwarves were nice little industrious things who helped the shoemaker because he and his wife were good people who helped others. A nice thought, unfortunately it is also very, very wrong.
The dwarves were evil, flea-ridden, rotten little miscreants.
Secondly, the version of the story you are familiar with mentions nothing of the shoemaker and his wife’s daughter, Olive. In the real version you are about to read, Olive was very much a part of this story. In fact, without Olive, there’d be no story.
It actually happened thus:
Once upon a time there was a shoemaker, who worked very hard at trying to cheat his customers by producing cheap, ill-fitting, grossly-overpriced shoes out of rotted leather he bought at a discount. Still he could not earn enough to live upon; and at last all he had in the world was gone, save just leather enough to make one last pair of crappy shoes.
“You are a terrible provider,” Mrs. Shoemaker said.
“You are also a terrible father,” Olive Shoemaker added.
“You are a terrible wife and child,” Mr. Shoemaker replied.
This type of conversation went on all day, every day in the Shoemaker home, largely ignored by all involved, until it was their turn to reply.
“You are a lousy shoemaker,” Mrs. Shoemaker said.
“You are a lousy father,” Olive Shoemaker added.
“You are a lousy wife and child,” Mr. Shoemaker replied.
Now as it happens, Mr. Shoemaker’s plan was to produce one more pair of crappy, over-priced shoes, in the hopes of selling them for enough to some unsuspecting passer-by, in order to leave the little village on the edge of the magical wood, and his family forever. (Apparently, shoes were very hard to come by and were very, very valuable.)
Then he cut his leather out, all ready to make up the next day, meaning to rise early in the morning to his work. His conscience was clear and his heart light amidst all his troubles, like all truly bad men.
That night, long after Mr. and Mrs. Shoemaker finally stopped sniping and fell asleep, and both started horribly snoring and passing gas Olive Shoemaker hurriedly dressed in her gingham dress with the white around the collar and sleeves (her only dress), put her hair into one long braid, and slipped out the window of her corner of the shack. Off she ran into the magical wood, that which the village sits next to, as she did most nights.
Olive had heard from a troll, who had heard from a gypsy, who had the story straight from the baker’s boy, that a little band of dwarves was seen camping in the forest. Now Olive knew, from having heard many years ago that dwarves were magical and that if one was fortunate enough to guess a dwarf’s name, that dwarf was forever in your power.
Olive had a plan. An evil, nasty plan, befitting evil, nasty dwarves. Olive would find the Dwarves campsite, sneak up close and hide, all the while listening intently to their conversation in hopes of learning one or the other’s name, which she would then use to enslave the dwarves, and make them do her will. A good plan, all in all, if you happen to be a nasty, evil git like our Olive.
Surprisingly, the dwarf campsite wasn’t that difficult to find (just follow the smell). But when Olive gingerly approached, she noticed another person had already snuck up and was crouched in the bushes listening to the dwarves’ conversation. The two ugly little green dwarves were sitting near a fire, sucking on some bones. Assuming this other person was there for the same reason, Olive snuck up behind him and hit him in the head with a rock, knocking him out cold. When Olive turned the boy over, she realized it was the self-same baker’s boy. Olive felt a momentary pang of regret, not because sh
e clonked him on the head, but because she didn’t really have the time to do certain things to him while he was unconscious.
After a while of scratching and listening, Olive’s efforts were finally rewarded when one of the dwarf’s used the other dwarf’s name.
“You are smelling particularly ripe, this evening, my dear friend,” said the first dwarf to the other.
“Ahh, thank you, kind brother” the other dwarf replied, after lifting an arm to take a sniff.
“Actually, I was referring to your rank breath,” replied the first dwarf.
“Must be that small child I consumed earlier,” said the other, “it needed changing.”
“But you did change it, into a meal!” The first dwarf exclaimed, laughing gaily and slapping his knee at his own small wit.
The other dwarf also found this uproarious and laughing heartily said, “Mumblebuttkerson, you slay me!”
While the dwarves in question were busy laughing and back slapping, Olive sprung up with her braid a-swinging, with an “Ah-Ha!” and yelled out, pointing, “Mumblebuttkerson, I compel you!” Thinking all the while that this sounded like the correct wording for a very official compelling.
The dwarves’ laughter stopped immediately, for it was no small thing to compel a dwarf.
“Why you nasty little…” started the dwarf known as Mumblebuttkerson, jumping up, hands on hips, obviously quite angry.
“Whatcha gonna make him do for you?” the other dwarf asked Olive, unsuccessfully trying to keep a smirk off his face, lounging back on his elbows.
“You mean, what am I going to make you both do?” Olive replied triumphantly.
“You don’t compel me, Olive (dwarves know things, like people’s names). I didn’t hear my name cross your gnarly lips.” Replied the first dwarf with a look of satisfaction on his ugly little green face, wagging a finger in her direction.
“His name is Mumblekuttberson,” said Mumblebuttkerson, starting a row between the dwarves that lasted well into fifteen minutes before Olive thought to yell “Mumblekuttberson and Mumblebuttkerson, Stop!”
Immediately the dwarves ceased all things.
“May we at least breathe?” one of them gasped.
“What, yes of course. Keep breathing,” Olive commanded, and the dwarves resumed breathing. As Olive will learn it is a terrible power this compulsion of dwarves. One must be very careful with the wording, for dwarves are tricky and if you leave your command open to even the smallest interpretation, it will be your undoing. The dwarves had already tricked Olive into commanding them to stay alive, for no subsequent compulsion can undo a previous one, that’s something they don’t tell you in dwarf compulsion 101 or wherever.
Now that they weren’t fearing for their lives, they settled down a bit. Poor Olive hadn’t much imagination or she could have accomplished great things with two magical dwarves at her beck and call. Her only plan was the same as her father’s drab, unimaginative plan, except she would be the one to sell the shoes and move far, far away.
Olive told the dwarves what they were to do.
In the morning after Mr. Shoemaker had completed his bathroom chores,
“Open the window!” Mrs. Shoemaker yelled from the bedroom,
he sat himself down to his work; when, to his great wonder, there stood the shoes already made, upon the table. Mr. Shoemaker, for a wonder, knew not what to say or think at such an odd thing happening. He looked at the workmanship; there was not one false stitch in the whole job; all was so neat and true, that the shoes were quite a masterpiece, even the rotted old leather looked new.
The dwarves had done exactly as commanded, created a beautiful pair of valuable footwear, then disappeared into the wood to stay quietly hidden until Olive’s next chore for them. Before Olive could snatch up the shoes and run away with them, a customer came in and the shoes suited him so well that he willingly paid a price higher than usual for them; and the poor shoemaker, with the money and grandiose thoughts of fabulous wealth, bought leather enough to make two pairs more.
Olive was pissed, but upon thinking about it, decided two pair were better than one so that night after Mr. Shoemaker cut out the work and went to bed early, she again traveled into the wood and compelled the dwarves to do the same, but twice this time. The only difference being the dwarves were commanded to stay in the attic all the next day, unless directed otherwise.
When he got up in the morning the work was done ready to his hand. Immediately, before Olive could rise (she was a bit lazy in the mornings) in came buyers, who paid him handsomely for the shoes, and out Mr. and Mrs. Shoemaker went, to do some shopping and dining, and to purchase more leather.
“Well, hell,” thought Olive. “This ain’t happening again,” she declared. After dressing in her best (and only) dress and putting her hair into its signature braid, up to the attic she went.
“Listen, Mumbles (she had earlier compelled them to shorten their names for convenience), tonight when that old fool and his smelly old wife return with the new leather, I want you to first take this awl and stab through the eyeballs anyone through the front door. Then make as many beautiful pair of shoes there is leather for and leave them on the table.”
“Of course,” said one.
“Our pleasure,” said the other, with a little bow.
Confident in her plan, Olive prepared to go into town on what she hoped was her last night to have her way with the baker’s boy. Before she was quite able to leave though, Mr. and Mrs. Shoemaker were returning down the lane. These circumstances satisfied the letter of the law, as it were, in the dwarves’ mind, and so they prepared to stick their awl through the eyeballs of whomever was through the door first.
Now it is well known, the only way a dwarf can be freed from the compulsion of one who called out his name, was with that person’s death, the more violent the better, cancelling all previous (and obviously) any future compulsions. So, a dwarf will analyze each and every command carefully to see if he can use it to bring about the demise of the compulsor, as it were.
As Mr. and Mrs. Shoemaker approached the front yard, Olive opened the door and ran out, hoping to avoid her nasty parents. Just then a large awl came hurtling through the air from the attic window, piercing Olive through both eyeballs. Immediately after to be followed by two green smelly ugly dwarves, who laughed and capered all the way down the lane.
Upon seeing this turn of events, Mrs. Shoemaker said, “You are a terrible father, Mr. Shoemaker.”
“And you are a terrible mother,” replied Mr. Shoemaker.
And into the house they went.
The End.
Prue
Back in the day, when trains were the preferred long-distance mode of transport, Kansas City was the gateway to the west. A busy mish mash of everything that makes the United States such a great and interesting place. And like all American cities, large and small, the 1970’s saw its steady decline into inner-city poverty rife with racial tensions, street corners strewn about with refuse and despondent persons of little means.
One thing Kansas City never lost though, was the cowboy. Whether it was due to the agricultural exchanges and livestock auction houses, which were an ongoing concern, or just because some people can never give up the past. It was a common sight to see cowboys strolling down the streets of Kansas City or driving around town in their Ford pick-up trucks and shiny Eldorados, depending on their individual states of prosperity.
Another common sight in Kansas City were the saloons. Real cowboy bars that served whiskey, Anheuser on draft and the occasional pound and a half of sirloin, charred on the outside, red on the in. This is where men would join one another after a hard day’s work at the factory, at the livestock houses, or at some downtown office. What you did for a living didn’t matter if you were sporting the hat and the attitude. Now these weren’t the types of places where you brought the little miss on a Saturday eve for line dancing. No, these were real bars for real men, Republicans mostly, places where ‘Political Cor
rectness’ would never get a foot in the door, where men drank, spit and told tall tales, and where the TV was tuned to channel nine to watch Larry Moore every night for the six-o’clock news. If there was a woman present, the term “Lady” had to be applied loosely.
Now it just so happened that a terrible heat wave gripped Kansas City and much of the midwest for 17 days in July 1980. Each one of those terrible days the mercury climbed above 100, and each one of those terrible days, old people died and tempers frayed.
It wasn’t the most fortuitous time to visit, but that is just what Frank, Gladys and their daughter Prue were doing, having stopped at the downtown Hyatt Regency for a few nights to visit the Worlds of Fun theme park, for a family vacation. (Yes, the same Hyatt Regency where just the following year terrible tragedy would strike.)
They had been planning their family vacation for some time. Once school finally ended and as the days grew longer, Prue’s patience with the wait grew shorter.
26 Absurdities of Tragic Proportions Page 9
