Author's Note:
Not that the first FF tale was wildly popular demanding another go-around,from decades ago I keep remembering Sister Jeanne-Pierre's trenchant warning: "No 'one' without a 'two'!" Hence appears the second flailing tale.
This tale itself has a "1" as in Part 1, subsequent "chapters" to follow, provided the present PC, "Pong 2.1," cooperates and the author can access it.
The author has a general disdain for footnotes. Believing that a work should contain all the necessary information within the text itself, I think they're extraneous in most works of literature (not that this nonsense falls under that prestigious umbrella.) I really dislike footnotes in poetry-- in a poem that is complete, footnotes are as redundant as voice-over narration on film, where a stentorian voice describes exactly what you're seeing on screen.
Despite all that, the various chapters of "The Lyin' King" will have footnotes,merely because I want to channel my inner Cliff Clavin and Dr. Sheldon Cooper, as well as a general reluctance not to pass up an opportunity for another joke, even a bad one! Which, more often than not, is the case.
Auntie’s Fairly Flailing Tales #2: “The Lyin’ King”
I.
Scritch-scritch-scritch. The sound of the stiff brush pushing back and forth against the chopping block was intermittently counterpointed by a less-rhythmical plunk-and-slosh during the brief intervals when the scullery maid paused to dip the rough implement into the pail of soapy water on the floor. Each time her brush made the ascent from the bucket back to the wooden square, the girl would be hit with an inescapable whiff of the cleaning solution, liberally laced with a potent portion of lye. The chemical stench stopped short of completely overwhelming her. It nonetheless opened the floodgates of her tear ducts and compelled her turned-up nose to twitch uncontrollably from side to side, as she fought to repress the irresistible approach of an imminent sneeze –- which ultimately won the battle with a formidable explosion reverberating off the stone walls of the castle’s kitchen.
Instantaneously there appeared in front of her face a human hand proffering a handkerchief, woven from a material no one would ever mistake for silk-- though not overly coarse, yet good enough to do the job. Another hand, presumably the hanky-provider’s partner, thwarted the girl’s attempt to turn around by covering her eyes.
“Guess who?” sang a falsetto voice.
“Prince Charming?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Merlin the Magnificent?”
“Guess again.”
“Oh, honestly! I’ve got no time for games!” With her own wet hands, the maid reached up to pull away the makeshift blindfold. She swivelled herself around before anyone in Christendom could stop her. “Oh, it’s you, again.”
The young man behind her bent down with a mocking bow. “It’s your one and only Tom! At your service, Dear Lady.”
The girl, who could give as well as she could take, feigned an attack with her scrubbing brush. “I can see that. What brings you to our earthly paradise this fine day?”
The “fine” was mere assumption, since she had eye-witnessed scarce daylight for the better part of a quadrennium. It had been that long since she’d been dragged from her mother’s loving arms into the involuntary servitude of the Royal Kitchen, where her shift began long before the sun came up and ended a full two hours after it went down. Her lot in life was not dissimilar to that of an oppressed coal miner, though she wasn’t one to complain. There were times, however, when a wistful reverie would surround her, inspiring nostalgic memories of her relatively happy youth, when her kinfolk had thought enough of her to call her by her Christian name rather than “You there, wench!” She’d been summoned by that demeaning epithet so often that the others who’d been similarly pressed into kitchen service-- especially those whose eardrums had been permanently damaged by the unrelenting din of clanging pots and pans-- heard “wench” as a clipped form of the name which they assumed to be “Gretchen.” Of course, she was smart enough not to disabuse anyone of this misinformation, stemming from a prudent sense of self-preservation, which constantly admonished her to avoid a beating at all costs. Hence, no one in the castle knew her real name.
Not even Tom knew the truth, as he leaned against the damp block with his fist on his chin, his eyes staring moonily at the comely maid, and his mind elsewhere. “Gretchen” repeated her question, even though she already knew the answer. Her admirer was –for lack of a better term – a gofer, or go-between the decidedly demented daily activities of the Palace and the comparatively saner outside world. In modern parlance, Tom was “in charge” (albeit with little or no authority) of Shipping and Receiving. The latter, with its endless onslaught of Royal Gifts --sent with the compliments of numerous prosperous merchants of the kingdom, all motivated by a obsession of currying the favor of the Monarch, or at the very least as an informal insurance policy of protection against his notoriously vengeful style of rule--was Tom’s only job. The equation was an unbalanced one, a bottom-heavy seesaw, with no reciprocating swing. The first part of the department existed in name only, for the king was not only a tyrant, but also the world’s worst skinflint, whose legendary lack of generosity made it clear that the only things ever sent out of the palace were warrants.
Tom was good at surviving by his wits, cosseting himself in the background, for all appearances keeping everything on the level while tossing in the occasional monkey wrench on the q.t. For his role of distributing the uninterrupted flow of said largess, Tom was expected to keep up with the parade of pricey goods, staying on his toes, and hopping to it. He was, therefore, taking an enormous chance in slacking off for a moment in order to visit his sweetheart, although the risk of being discovered in such dalliance would have made him a likely candidate for a stint in the dungeon, where he’d be confined until such time another shipment would arrive. Tough beans, Tom thought– she’s worth it.
Although the job had its perks– - a slightly larcenous, unintended lagniappe off the top of a casket of jewels or a strawberry tart pilfered off a crowded tray, amounting to trifles never to be missed– - such was not the curriculum vitae that Tom had mapped out for himself. It had been his lifelong dream to follow in the clown-shoe-sized footsteps of his father and grandfather –and several generations before them. What he really wanted to be was a jester. That hope died aborning, two decades previously, when young Tom had just begun to try out his juvenile “Knock Knock” jokes, but the tradition, alas, became irrevocably lost the night his sharp-tongued father’s one-liner allegedly “crossed the line,” resulting in the elder’s banishment to a far-off land where he’d been forced to live as a hermit, his best material wasted on the wind, his only audience a chorus of blasé crickets.
At the time of his father’s misfortune, Tom’s tender age had saved him from similar punishment, thus avoiding an inchoate public relations nightmare for the Crown. The Court Advisory Panel had ruled against throwing the boy into the Royal Orphanage where, it was feared, he’d likely become an undesirable influence upon the younger inmates. Plan B was to place the child under the dubious “care” and tutelage of the Royal Gatekeeper, who immediately enlisted Tom as Second Assistant to the Drawbridge Opener, the physical act of pulling the chains and ropes less a chore than an opportunity for pranks: teasing-- if not terrifying-- unsuspecting visitors to the castle by pretending to lower or raise the walkway a bit too soon or too late. Even this subversive behavior brought about little in the way of punishment, again because of his youth. Yet by the time he grew into manhood, the years of repetitively strenuous activity had served to enhance Tom’s upper body strength and flexibility, leaving him with arms as mighty as trebuchets, hurling him smack into his current job, designed for a body built to haul heavy packages, crates, and cartons. Tom would much rather be shipping clever ripostes instead of receiving unsolicited grief, such as promised by the Royal Chef, shooting a menacing look in his direction.
Tom caught the threatening glare as a signal to get on with the day’s delivery for the Royal Kitchen, where all manner of filthy vermin would be allowed to run free before Tom could justify his presence there without a good reason. “Not one but two presents for you today
Cookie! Here’s the first –“ With his burly arms he reached down and slammed a large crate on a long table. “From the sounds and the aroma I’d say the contents consist of Guinea Hens, quantity two dozen. But wait – there’s more! “ Indeed there was a second crate, twice as heavy and dripping a vile liquid. “This one’s silent,” Tom said, “but it stinks out loud!”
With that he slashed open the container and dumped the lot–a brackish, blackish mess of squirming coils on the bare table, the sight of which made the girl shriek. “Snakes!”
“No, snacks! “ Tom corrected. “Also known as eels. They’re what’s for dinner!”
The Chef shot another dirty look in Tom’s direction. “I don’t know what’s worse, your impudence or your ignorance. I’ll have you know that this is a delicacy, a rare and exotic dish worthy of His Majesty’s discriminating palate.”
“Slipperies for the Slippery,” Tom whispered, poking one of “Gretchen’s” ribs above a shapely hip.
“The world’s craftiest fishermen caught these in the pristine waters off the Coast of Gentletralia–“
“Poached, he means,” Tom said.
“What?” shouted the Chef, raising a treacherous knife high in the air.
“I said ‘They must be quite delectable poached in a lovely garlic and butter sauce.’ “
“Before I attack these puppies, I’ll skin you alive, you traitorous knave!” threatened the chef who literally had his hands full, the knife in one hand while the other frantically attempted to unravel the slimy mesh of elongated fish. Imagining himself to be Hercules v. the Hydra entangled in the Gordian Knot, he considered the piscine duel a test of his manhood until frustration conquered, resulting in a frantic call to the sous chef for aid. The second in culinary command, however, had been otherwise engaged at the pastry table, covered with slightly more flour than that which coated his arms. With a degree of difficulty equal to his superior’s task, the chef’s assistant’s current task involved lifting up a bottom crust to place it in a pie pan the size of a waterwheel. Meanwhile the crate of fowl chirped, the chef cursed, the eels squirmed, and Tom resumed pitching woo.
From out of nowhere he produced a little basket festooned with ribbons and tiny flowers, filled with fragrant contents. “Sweets for the Sweet,” Tom cooed.
“Raspberries!”
“ Would that they were rubies.” *
“Nay,” the lady protested, “they’re beautiful,” reciprocating with a peck of gratitude on Tom’s forehead,glistening with diaphoresis.
“Alas, you deserve so much more. Not just the berries– I mean you should have some better prospect--a nobleman, maybe-- pressing his suit.”
“Your clothes are fine, Tom, not wrinkled at all. Besides, you are the kindest, most considerate swain who ever graced the kingdom of Cappoccia. Just between you and me and the [insert your choice of ananchronistic exterior lighting device here], Tom– I’ve always felt you were destined for bigger and better things–“
He affected a laugh, pretending to scoff. “Yeah, right. Unfortunately my aspirations greatly exceed mine abilities.”
“Oh, no, Tom –you were meant for greatness, not for the likes of me. You should pick a better leman.** I don’t have to remind you that I’m nothing but a common- - commoner, only fit to scrape offal off plates and scrub crockery. My goodness, I can’t even read or write. These days a woman’s future is as bleak as a dungeon.”
“Not you, dear lady. Any day now a dashing Prince will come riding in on his mighty steed and sweep you off your feet–“
“I’m the one stuck sweeping, Tom. Besides, princes only go for gals with tiny feet.” Instantly “Gretchen” regretted her last statement, but to his credit, Tom knew enough not to steal a glance at her slightly-above-average-length dogs.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this, slaving your life away for Bluebeard over there, merely to please the discriminating palate of His Royal Pain in the Posterior upstairs? That blowhard prevaricator, that syphilitic tyrant! Look at your hands, so rough and red– they should be soft and delicate like the rest of you. Let’s run away, my Love– let’s leave this horrible place forever!”
Swiftly “Gretchen” put her index finger up to her lips and gently placed it on Tom’s. “Shh!” She jerked a thumb in the chef’s direction. “Big ears,” she whispered.
The chef, however, paid no heed to Tom’s subversive escape plans, for he had, to be sure, other fish to fry. The erstwhile knife had been replaced with an enormous mallet. From a row of studs held between his teeth, he attempted to take a tack, one by one, and nail each end of an uncooperative eel to the table. With his mouth full, he could not efficaciously swear; hence he substituted a series of passionate grunts, which gradually increased in decibel level, all the while interloped by the chef’s assistant’s pleas for advice– “Hey, Boss, do you want I should roast ‘em first or does I just plop ‘em in as is? And if so, do you want some kinda screen to pre-teck the top crust or what?” Meanwhile the screeching emanating from the crate of fowl sounded as if had originated from another benighted kingdom, down below.
Despite the din, Tom managed to make his whispered request heard, as he stood behind “Gretchen” with his manly arms around her slim waist while he snuggled her neck. “Tonight? The usual place?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Tom. And I’ll try to stay awake this time,” hastening to add– “Oh! I mean, it’s just that I’m exhausted all the time, and –-“
“I know, Sweetheart, I –-“
“Hey! “ The chef’s sudden shout scattered the remaining tacks all over the stone floor. “Stop manhandling the help! Your work is done here. Now get out!”
“I got to go, Honey. Not because he says so. “ Tom showed her a manila envelope. “Got to bring this upstairs.”
“Lucky you,” she said.
Another quick forehead buss, and with that, our plucky hero took his reluctant leave.
Notes for Part One
*Rubies.
Allusion to an endearing show biz anecdote involving playwright Charles (“The Front Page”) MacArthur and Helen Hayes, the “First Lady of the American Theatre ,” who would one day be his wife. As the story goes, upon first meeting Helen at a cocktail party, Charles deposited a bunch of peanuts in her hand and then reportedly said, “I wish they were emeralds.”
**leman
Not a typo for “lemon,” the slang term for a less than desirable item, but as the archaic term for a lover or sweetheart.
TO BE CONTINUED
Fairly Flailing Tale #1-- "Jack, The Giant's Life Coach"
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Originally Posted by MANICHAEAN
Notwithstanding, I'm enjoying the ride Auntie, so keep it coming 
