“See? What kind of ridiculous statement is that? I mean, he could have said something like ‘I think that they are worse than goose.'”
“Well, goose would be singular,” Randall said.
“Yeah, that's right. But you've got truce, deuce, abuse, obtuse...”
“None of those have much to do with moose.”
“I must admit I don't like moose. I'd like to hang them from a noose,” said Ben.
“Stoooo-pid.”
“I must admit I hate brown moose. I wish that they came in chartreuse.”
“You see my point?” Bob asked Randall. “That rhyme stuff just doesn't work in a normal conversation.”
“Leave me alone, brother of mine. Or I shall have to...” He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. “Dang.”
“You've made yourself into a verbal cripple. I hope you're satisfied. Now, let's get to the torture!” He turned to Randall and slapped him across the face. It wasn't a particularly hard slap, but it still stung.
“Gonna cry?” asked Bob. “Huh? Gonna cry? Gonna cry? Is the baby gonna cry?” He reached out and gave Randall's nose a good pinch. “That hurt? Huh? Gonna cry?” He gave Randall's ear a sharp tug. “What about that? That hurt? Gonna cry? Want your mommy? Gonna tell on me? Huh?”
He tapped his finger against Randall's chest. When Randall looked down, he brought his finger up, snapping Randall across the face. “That hurt? Gonna cry? Ben, get me Igor.”
“I shall do just what you request. My brother you are just the best. Ha! Flawless!”
“You had to separate ‘bro’ and ‘ther’ to get the two-beat pattern right. Sounded pretty forced to me.”
Ben sighed and picked up Igor, a small hand puppet of a deformed hunchback. He gave it to Bob, who placed it on his hand, then held it less than an inch from Randall's face. “This is Igor. Kissy, kissy!” He shoved the puppet against Randall's face, moving it in a grinding motion.
“Quit it,” said Randall.
“Oh, he wants me to quit it! Had enough? Has the baby had enough? I'll decide when you've had enough.” He continued grinding the puppet against Randall's face. “Kissy, kissy!”
Annoyed, Randall glanced over at Ben, who was removing something from a coal stove. A red-hot poker.
“It is my turn to bring him pain. No pain, no gain, no pain, no gain.”
Bob stepped out of the way, bringing Igor with him. Ben very slowly began to move forward, the poker out in front of him. When it was three inches from Randall's face, he stopped, moving it up and down, teasing him. Randall frantically tried to blow on it to cool it down.
“Starting to sweat?” asked Bob. “Kind of hot, isn't it? It sure doesn't feel good having a red-hot poker that close to your face, does it? Get it even closer, Ben.”
Ben moved it another half-inch closer. Rivulets of sweat poured down Randall's forehead, and he could barely breathe in his intense fright.
“Put it over by his ear,” suggested Bob. “That'll really be uncomfortable. You know, because your ear is more fragile and all that.”
Ben brought the tip of the poker around next to Randall's ear. He held it there for several seconds. “Okay, that'll do,” said Bob. “Put the poker back in the stove.”
As Ben returned the poker, Igor came back into play. “Kissy, kissy! Kissy, kissy! Gonna cry?”
“All right, he's had enough,” said the burnt guard, appearing at the cell door.
“But I didn't get to use the rubber bands!” Bob protested.
“Tough.”
“Or the glue!”
“Tough.”
“Or the spitballs!”
“I said, tough.” The burnt guard threw open the cell door, entered, and grabbed Randall by the arm. “C'mon, let's go.”
“We shall miss you, I think I'll say. Please do come back some other day.”
“He can't come back, doofus,” said Bob. “He's gonna be dead. See, if you wouldn't worry so much about those rhymes, you wouldn't say stupid things like that. You think he respects you now? You think he's going to go to his grave thinking ‘Gosh, that Ben guy sure was a swell chap!'? No way! He's going to die thinking ‘That rhyming imbecile sure made a twit out of himself.’ I mean, you had a million rhymes for ‘say’ and you still couldn't come up with something intelligent.”
“Fine,” said Ben. “I will never rhyme again. You hear me? I ill-way ever-nay yme-rhay ain-agay.”
“No!” said Bob. “No pig latin! I mean it!”
“Oes-day it other-bay ou-yay?”
Bob lunged at his brother and smashed Igor into his face. The burnt guard shrugged and led Randall out of the cell and back down the hallway. He unlocked the first cell after they rounded the corner and shoved Randall inside with a young man with a tremendously long beard and filthy clothing.
“That's Jack, your cellmate,” said the burnt guard, as he shut the door and left.
Randall surveyed his surroundings. There wasn't much besides the heavily written-upon wall and a bunch of straw on the ground. Jack sat in the corner, watching Randall carefully. Randall looked at him uncomfortably.
“So, what's up?” Randall asked.
“It's a direction. The opposite of down.”
“I see.”
“As do I, and all creatures with eyes.”
“I'm not going to like you, am I?”
Jack grinned. “Just messing with your mind. And you are...?”
“Randall. A squire.” He noticed that the walls were covered with thousands of games of Hangman, every single one of which used the word ‘debutante.’
“My previous cellmate had a one-word vocabulary, but he did love to play Hangman,” Jack explained.
“What happened to him?”
“He was hanged. Poor boy didn't realize the irony until the very end. Are you here for imprisonment or to await execution?”
“Execution.”
“Ah. So it doesn't matter if we get along or not. Me, I've received a sentence of life imprisonment. Once a day I'm taken to be tortured and have that stupid puppet shoved in my face, but aside from that it's not such a bad life.”
“What did you do?”
“Therein lies a tale. Do you want me to share it with you?”
“Is it long?”
“Not too long. A few minutes.”
“How many?”
“Maybe five.”
“Can it be condensed?”
“Not without losing most of the details that give it a you-are-there feel.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
“Thank you. Here's what happened...”
* * * *
ONCE UPON a time, a boy named Jack lived in a small cottage with his mother. The cottage was certainly not “roomy,” and the pastel motif was less than pleasant, but it was home.
One day their cow, Bessie Sue Mae, quit giving milk.
“Jack, I want you to go to the market and sell our cow so that we may have money to buy food for the coming winter months,” she told him.
“Why not just eat the cow?” Jack asked.
“What would the Hindu family next door say? Now go to the market, trade Bessie, and bring back at least five dvorkins. I expect you home by the morrow.”
“I shan't let you down, Mother,” Jack promised. Then he hopped on the cow's back, used his spurs, and galloped off toward the market.
Along the way, he met an old beggar woman. “Young man,” she said, “I am an old beggar woman, tired and hungry. Have you any food to spare?”
“No,” Jack admitted, “But if you tear off a hunk of cow somewhere near the bottom, I don't think anybody will notice.”
“I have a better idea.” The old woman smiled, revealing that she had but one tooth. It was, however, a rather nice tooth, if a bit black and sticky. “If you give me the cow, I'll give you five magic beans.”