by Todd M.A. Wandio
Bill Turpin stood in the middle of his field, checking the roots of the tender sprouts of early summer when he heard a noise.
Munch munch munch
Bill, a diminutive harvester of apparently dwarven stock scratched the itchy spot behind his left knee (which he could just reach with his stubby little arm, if he bent himself slightly backwards). He looked around and listened more carefully.
Munch munch munch
Considering that hallucinations rarely repeated themselves, especially not auditory ones, Bill tried to focus on the direction of the sound. It was a still day in late June, so Bill was able to watch for movement without the distraction of a breeze to get in the way. It was nearly summer, and the fields were past ankle height and green with promise.
Munch munch munch
There it was, about ten feet to Bill’s left, a rustling in the shallow greenery. Bill waddled as silently as he could to the spot, and tenderly parted the grasses there. He came fairly near to soiling himself at what he saw before him. There, perched on its bottom on the soft June ground was the most perfect recreation of mankind in extremely tiny form that Bill had ever seen. It also happened to be the only perfect recreation of mankind in tiny form that Bill had ever seen, but it was nonetheless amazing for all that.
The person was about three inches in height, with skin the color of the black earth upon which he sat. His clothes were a combination of the greens of spring, the yellow of the late summer and the oranges of the trees in autumn. Around his shoulder hung a bag, apparently full to near overflowing, containing what items Bill Turpin could only guess at.
“Whell, there...” Bill said to the tiny one. “Seems to me we ain’t yet acquainted.”
And so he introduced himself, holding out a finger in greeting.
The tiny one accepted the outstretched finger in what must have seemed to it to be the only correct response. He bit it as ferociously as he could, drawing blood in a spurt which sent him sprawling.
“Yikes. What’n the blue blazes do you think yer doing?” Bill shouted, recovering his injured finger and cradling it in his free hand.
“I, you lout, am protecting myself from your most intrusive behavior. Poke your digit towards me again and get more of the same.” The small figure squeaked, though to him(and apparently it was a male) it must have been a fair booming voice indeed.
“But I was only tryin’ to be friendly.” Bill mumbled back, as quietly as he could. The last thing he wanted was for someone to overhear him speaking to the ground. No one would believe him if he told the truth.
“Save your friendlies for someone of lower stature. One does not, and I don’t care which kingdom you hail from, does not point fingers at royalty. It is simply understood. And if you had even half of a brain in that foolish pate of yours you would have known that and would have greeted me in the proper manner.” By way of demonstration, the fiesty miniature made a flourish and a great bow, his lithe little arm sweeping the ground in a grand gesture.
Bill Turpin, amazed at the little person was astounded at the royal demeanor, because, for all intents and purposes he was a lout. And for the most part it was true, he didn’t have more than half of a brain at his disposal, not that he used, in any case.
“Gee, Mister, I’m real sorry to have ‘fended ya. I’ll try ta ‘dress ya properly this time.” So he did, attempting the flourish and the sweep as best he could, though his stubby arms and legs prevented him from looking any less loutish.
“That’s better. Now, every good king must have a court, and since you are all that is available, you will have to do.” Kicked in the smallish one.
“You shall be the court jester and the visier. That way, when I tire of your advice, you may entertain me in your usual loutish ways. And when I tire of that, I can have you taken out and flogged for your insolence. In payment, of course, I shall grant you a boon.” When Bill just stared at him, in obvious non-comprehension, he relented, “A wish, buffoon. A wish.”
“But wait a minute. Yer sittin in my field. I should get ta tell you what ta do an that.” Bill complained, offended at the insinuation that he be held in the position of fool, but slightly encouraged at the consideration of the wish.
The tiny person snorted in disgust and waved his tiny hand as if to waft away an upleasant odor.
“Perhaps I have not made myself clear, you of little brain and no common sense. I am a king. I am the king, as a matter of fact.”
“The king of what?” inquired Bill Turpin.
“The king of everything. The king of the world, of all the plants, of the ground, of the creatures and the buildings and the entirety of the earth. THE KING.”
“But if yer the king, how comes I never heard of you?” Bill replied, not buying any of it. In the back of his mind, he was still mulling over the possibility that this was some kind of hoax. At any moment, he could see his neighbors popping up from behind bushes and trees to begin laughing at his strange behavior. Perhaps they would even record it on video tape and play the scene at the Carbon Creek County Fair.
“Just because you have not heard of me does not mean I am not as I say. Consider this. Am I not the color of the earth?”
Bill nodded his head.
“And am I not standing in this field, acting as if it were mine to do with as I pleased?”
Bill nodded again.
“Did it ever occur to you that I might be telling the truth?”
Bill shook his head this time. It hadn’t occurred to him. He thought this little fellow a piece of bad cauliflower he had eaten last night causing him hallucinations of the most vivid nature.
“Perhaps it is my size that is throwing you, my addle pated twit of a jester. Perhaps you have something against small people. Perhaps you are a bigot of the worst kind...”
At that Bill spoke up. It was a tender point for him, after all.
“No sir your majesty. I don’t judge people by what they look like. I’m pretty small myself, for a person my size. If you’re a real king like you say, I suppose it don’t matter how big ya are.” And that settled it for Bill Turpin. The creature could very likely be the king of the world, just like he said. Which meant that he, Bill, could stand to be a very wealthy person of diminutive stature.
He figured he would have to play along with the jester bit and all. Of course, that would mean being humiliated, but Bill was used to that. After all, Carbon Creek was not the most size-tolerant town around. He would put up with the humiliation, and he would wait for just the right moment to make his move. He would make his wish, by golly, and it would be a good one, indeed.
Then Bill Turpin would be King of the World.
“O.K. yer majesty. What’s yer first command fer old Bill?”
“Well, my most rye headed son of siblings, I should think a celebration dance would be appropriate. Therefore I command you to dance.”
So Bill sucked up his pride and began a little soft shoe there in his field.
“No, not good enough, jester Turpentine.”
“That’s Turpin, yer majesty,” corrected Bill, picking up the pace, already panting and beginning to sweat. He was not a healthy person of diminutive stature, after all. He had spent the better part of the past decade getting drunk on his own vintage of wine brewed from the various berries natural to the area, including some which probably shouldn’t be ingested in any form, fermented or not.
Oh, sure, he had tried getting taller. He had ordered all the pills, tonics and potions money could buy. He had consulted orthopedic surgeons, specialists in the pituitary and other glands, even paid a certain lady a fair bundle to stretch him on the rack. The long and short of it was that he would never get any taller. It was in his genes, and would never leave them, no matter how hard he tried.
Unless, of course, he was King of the World. Then he would be master of all the Earth. Then, finally, he would get his wish. That was, of course, if he lived to see the end of his dance, for he was becoming quite blue in the face by this time, having overexherted himself to an obscene extent just to get in the good graces of the thumb-sized Lord of All.
The little fellow was apparently unimpressed.
“No, you blue-lipped baboon,” he ranted. “I want a real dance. Forget it. Stop your padding about. It is altogether too ridiculous. I insist you cease immediately and take me to your living quarters. I grow hungry and wish to dine.”
Bill was only too happy to stop, and, though he nearly fell over, he made the effort to bend down and extend his palm toward his new master. He lifted him and, carefully as he could, carried him back to the two room house which he called home.
It was small but neatly kept, Bill being the fastidious person he was. It also had the look of a place not-much-lived-in, which was in fact the case, considering Bill spent much of his time either out in his fields nursing a headache, or out at the tavern getting one. The home was pretty much the way the furniture company had delivered it, notwithstanding the peeling wallpaper and ancient light fixtures.
“Welcome, yer majesty,” he said, setting the tiny Uberlord on the comfortable sofa. “Just have a rest while I fix up a little something to eat.”
And a little something it was indeed. From months spent drinking in town, Bill Turpin had little in his refrigerator save a bottle of ketchup and and aged bun, which had chosen not to go to mould, preferring instead to become hard as rock. These Bill removed, and fixed as best he could into a rude sandwich, not at all fit for the King of the World, but certainly better than nothing.
At seeing the dry, ketchup smeared repast, the diminutive monarch scoffed, saying, “Bah, fool. I would not feed that to a dog, much less the King of the World. I demand you take me to the nearest village for a feast befitting a true King.”
Bill was relieved. He had worked altogether too hard for one day, and needed a drink to still his nerves and wet his wide-mouthed whistle. He would take his pint-sized King to the Carbon Creek Tavern, and there feed him a buffalo burger, while Bill could sit in the quiet annonymity to which he had become used, and quaff a gallon of pilsner so young it looked nearly as green as it tasted .
So it was into the truck, down the road, and a ten minute drive to the sleepy town of Carbon Creek; past the Gas-n-Go, past the house which strangely enough looked like a pirate ship, of all things, past the town square, the green grass of which was kept well-mown by a fat cow, to the Tavern across from the square. It was hot enough that the asphalt melted crepe soled shoes, and it was a good thing, Bill Turpin applauded himself, that he hadn’t worn his hush puppies. All the while, the King of the World, his vari-coloured garb reflecting beautifully in the hard sunshine, perched on Bill’s shoulder and regaled him all the way with an ode to nature.
“The grass, green as emerald, the cow, queen of pasture, the three-legged dog, limping but valorous, the shade, dark friend to the dog...” and so on did he hold forth, Bill hardly taking notice, for he had lost interest by the time the litany had encompassed the contents of his farm yard. Bill had little appreciation for things poetic, and besides, he was thirstier than a ‘69 Pontiac.
Bill opened the door and immediately nosed for the darkest corner of the Tavern. It was good to smell the stale beer and cigarette smoke of a hot summer’s afternoon in the cool dark tavern, and he couldn’t wait to have a seat in his favorite spot. He was so thirsty by this point he swore he could feel his togue swelling. He sat down, his back to the corner, and fiddled with the thin foil ashtray while he waited for the bar maid to come.
Let it be stated once more that Bill Turpin was a gentleman of diminutive stature. Furthermore, let it be said that he caused little notice while sober, and tended to keep quiet, even despite the fact that he had been sitting at his favorite table for nearly half an hour and the bar maid had not yet approached. He cleared his throat, and she took no notice, instead smoking a cigarette and chatting with the bartender.. The bar was not yet crowded, a hanful of young men lounging at a table across the room being the only other patrons in the Tavern. But by his watch, it was nearing four o’clock, and with Happy Hour starting, it would soon be crowded. He “ahemmed” loudly, and this time the bar maid looked in his direction, but seemed to miss him entirely. Bill was becoming quite agitated, and was by now so thirsty he felt his eyelids scratching against his eyeballs.
“You know, my good fool, that my hunger is becoming near to entirely unbearable, “ muttered the King of the World, quiet since they had sat down.
“I know,” whispered Bill to the man on his shoulder, “but they haven’t come yet.”
“I suggest you be a little more assertive then, my short, thick headed buffoon.”
Bill stood on his chair, his thirst and the King’s badgering overcoming his shyness, and called across the room in his loudest voice, “A beer for me and a buffalo burger for my little friend.”
What little conversation there was stopped, as all eyes turned to see Bill, a small man, standing upon a chair, calling for a beer and a burger for an apparently invisible compadre. One of the young men commented rudely about the “friend”, pointing to his nether regions and winking at his mates. Bill blushed an unnatural shade of purple, and sat down as quickly as he could.
“How could you put up with such an insult, you cotton headed miscreant?” whispered the King of the World, jumping up and down on Bill’s shoulder and shaking his fists.
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Why, if it were me, I’d throw them such a taunt as would curl the hairs on their heads.”
“But I don’t know any taunts,” Bill explained.
The King of the World thought for a moment, then his face literally lit up as his lips broadened into a menacing grin.
“No,” he said, “but I do,” and he proceded to hurl a barrage of insults across the room, his voice magically filling the place.
It was not the pint-sized king’s own voice which berated the bar maid, telling her to “Move those mud-flaps, Bertha!” Nor was it his own voice which interrupted the quiet conversation of the young men, who had decided to ignore Bill Turpin, but now had to pay special attention, since they had just been called “A pack of slope-headed gutter trash,” and “dull-witted jack-o-napes” besides. That last one, of course, brought the lot of them to their feet, despite the feeble backpeddling attempted by Bill, who was too flustered to realize he should be outraged at how the King of the World was treating his jester.
The young men gathered around his table, and one of them, a very tall, big boned strap of a man, looked down at Bill, who had to look up at most people, but had to look up even more at this chap. The room became quiet, the only sound being the fizzing of the natural carbonation of the bar draft on Bill’s table. The tall one glared at Bill, Bill smiled back, showing the huge gap between his front teeth. Then the tall one’s glare became a glint in the eye, followed by a mischievous smile which made Bill’s own bowels shudder. Then, with an indrawing of breath which seemed to Bill to last an eternity, but was in reality just long enough to fill the lungs, the tall one shouted the most feared of Bill’s humiliations.
“Dwarf toss, fellas...” upon which the tall one’s friends seized Bill Turpin and, clearing a space on the bar room floor, proceded to toss Bill back and forth across the empty space. Bill, of course, suffered the humiliation with as little complaint as possible, though humiliation enough he suffered for ten little people. He just kept repeating “I still got a wish, I still got a wish,” in his mind, a mantra which made it all bearable.
All the while, the King of the World sat at the edge of the table, cheering the young men on in their endeavors. He was heartily amused, judging by his reaction.
When the young men had finished their cruel game of catch, and plopped Bill unceremoniously upon his derriere back at his own table, and bought him a beer for being a good sport, the King of the World was still chuckling merrily to himself, such was his mirth over the turn of events. Bill, who was stoic as one could be through the whole ordeal, but who smiled broadly though he felt like crying when the men offered beer, turned his head to the tiny tyrant, and muttered, under his breath, “What’re you laughing at, shrimp.”
“Oh, ho...Why, I am laughing at your misfortune, fool.”
“It’s not polite, getting people in trouble like that,” Bill mumbled, taking a large swig of beer, having to wipe his chin of the draught which didn’t quite make it past the lips. “Not polite at all,” he mumbled again.
“My lad, but that’s what jesters are for. You should have read the fine print when you signed up. Everyone knows it is the King’s primary responsibility to make the jester act the fool as often and as boldly as he is capable. And, my ugly companion, as King of the World, I am honor bound to carry out this most grave duty to the utmost.”
Bill calmed a little after the explanation. But it was not due to the King’s explanation, for he had scarcely heard that. Oh, no, Bill Turpin had something up his sleeve, he was thinking, calculating, considering.
Bill Turpin was about to make his wish.
“Well, yer majesty, I suppose you got a point, there,” Bill stated, scratching his bristly and wide chin regally. “I suppose a fool ought to act like an idiot whenever the master says so.”
The King of the World puffed with pride. He had come to firmly believe that he was the owner of a perfect fool. He was visibly tickled from his tiny toes to the tip of his pointy-capped head. He was about to congratulate Bill Turpin on such a rapid turn about, when Bill beat him to the punch.
“That’s why, yer majesty, when I’m King of the World, I will have you as my jester. You seem to know so much about it, you’d be the perfect fool.”
The King of the World was taken aback. He gathered himself quickly, however, and chuckled merrily. This was rich, indeed.
“Why, fool, you had me going for a moment there. You truly are the king of fools.”
“No, your majesty. I wish to be King of the World.”
The tiny monarch raised a single eyebrow, rubbed his regal chin with a tiny tiny finger, and appeared thoughtful.
“Ah, yes, the wish, I’d almost forgotten,” replied the King of the World, still stroking his chin, but appearing as cheerful as ever.
“Very well,” he said at length, and waved his hand above his head, making a circle three times. “Bill Turpin, I make you King of the World.”
There was no smoke, no explosions nor eerie cackling noises, not the sound of devils tearing flesh, nor the smell of sulfur, nor the tingling upon one’s spine which tells that magic is afoot.
It simply came to be. One moment, Bill Turpin was a person of diminutive stature with a bubble of beer upon his chin, and the next, he was an impish monarch standing upon a terry cloth covered bar chair. And, standing next to him, a full five feet eleven inches, was as handsome a farmer as ever Bill Turpin had seen. It was so natural a transition, Bill Turpin almost forgot that he should be gloating.
“Ha ha! I’ve done it,” he finally piped in, though not with as much enthusiasm as one would suppose. “I’ve become King of the World.”
He looked up at the farmer standing beside him, apparently unaware that life had ever been any different. There was no hint of remorse on the young but already weather worn face. There was not even the slightest sign that the farmer knew he was in the presence of the King of the World. But Bill planned to change all that.
“Pardon me, my good fellow,” he began, and the farmer looked around to locate the source of the voice. “Down here,” the King of the World called up, compelling the farmer to look down at the bar seat. Bill waved and bowed regally.
“What in tarnation,” muttered the farmer, staring in wide wonder at the diminutive form before him.
“Allow me to introduce myself, my good fellow of the earth and field. I am the King of the World,” Bill bombasted, bowing yet again, and for the last time.
The farmer got the faintest glint in his eye, and, though Bill had thought he was preparing to bow in return, lifted his hard boot, setting it down firmly upon the bar chair, and, of course, upon the newly crowned King of the World.
“I’ve gotta quit drinkin’, “ the farmer muttered to himself, chucking a fiver on the table to cover the beer, trundling back to his old farm truck, back down the road a spell, to his tiny house and his whispering fields.
Copywright Todd M.A. Wandio, 2000
Munch munch munch
Bill, a diminutive harvester of apparently dwarven stock scratched the itchy spot behind his left knee (which he could just reach with his stubby little arm, if he bent himself slightly backwards). He looked around and listened more carefully.
Munch munch munch
Considering that hallucinations rarely repeated themselves, especially not auditory ones, Bill tried to focus on the direction of the sound. It was a still day in late June, so Bill was able to watch for movement without the distraction of a breeze to get in the way. It was nearly summer, and the fields were past ankle height and green with promise.
Munch munch munch
There it was, about ten feet to Bill’s left, a rustling in the shallow greenery. Bill waddled as silently as he could to the spot, and tenderly parted the grasses there. He came fairly near to soiling himself at what he saw before him. There, perched on its bottom on the soft June ground was the most perfect recreation of mankind in extremely tiny form that Bill had ever seen. It also happened to be the only perfect recreation of mankind in tiny form that Bill had ever seen, but it was nonetheless amazing for all that.
The person was about three inches in height, with skin the color of the black earth upon which he sat. His clothes were a combination of the greens of spring, the yellow of the late summer and the oranges of the trees in autumn. Around his shoulder hung a bag, apparently full to near overflowing, containing what items Bill Turpin could only guess at.
“Whell, there...” Bill said to the tiny one. “Seems to me we ain’t yet acquainted.”
And so he introduced himself, holding out a finger in greeting.
The tiny one accepted the outstretched finger in what must have seemed to it to be the only correct response. He bit it as ferociously as he could, drawing blood in a spurt which sent him sprawling.
“Yikes. What’n the blue blazes do you think yer doing?” Bill shouted, recovering his injured finger and cradling it in his free hand.
“I, you lout, am protecting myself from your most intrusive behavior. Poke your digit towards me again and get more of the same.” The small figure squeaked, though to him(and apparently it was a male) it must have been a fair booming voice indeed.
“But I was only tryin’ to be friendly.” Bill mumbled back, as quietly as he could. The last thing he wanted was for someone to overhear him speaking to the ground. No one would believe him if he told the truth.
“Save your friendlies for someone of lower stature. One does not, and I don’t care which kingdom you hail from, does not point fingers at royalty. It is simply understood. And if you had even half of a brain in that foolish pate of yours you would have known that and would have greeted me in the proper manner.” By way of demonstration, the fiesty miniature made a flourish and a great bow, his lithe little arm sweeping the ground in a grand gesture.
Bill Turpin, amazed at the little person was astounded at the royal demeanor, because, for all intents and purposes he was a lout. And for the most part it was true, he didn’t have more than half of a brain at his disposal, not that he used, in any case.
“Gee, Mister, I’m real sorry to have ‘fended ya. I’ll try ta ‘dress ya properly this time.” So he did, attempting the flourish and the sweep as best he could, though his stubby arms and legs prevented him from looking any less loutish.
“That’s better. Now, every good king must have a court, and since you are all that is available, you will have to do.” Kicked in the smallish one.
“You shall be the court jester and the visier. That way, when I tire of your advice, you may entertain me in your usual loutish ways. And when I tire of that, I can have you taken out and flogged for your insolence. In payment, of course, I shall grant you a boon.” When Bill just stared at him, in obvious non-comprehension, he relented, “A wish, buffoon. A wish.”
“But wait a minute. Yer sittin in my field. I should get ta tell you what ta do an that.” Bill complained, offended at the insinuation that he be held in the position of fool, but slightly encouraged at the consideration of the wish.
The tiny person snorted in disgust and waved his tiny hand as if to waft away an upleasant odor.
“Perhaps I have not made myself clear, you of little brain and no common sense. I am a king. I am the king, as a matter of fact.”
“The king of what?” inquired Bill Turpin.
“The king of everything. The king of the world, of all the plants, of the ground, of the creatures and the buildings and the entirety of the earth. THE KING.”
“But if yer the king, how comes I never heard of you?” Bill replied, not buying any of it. In the back of his mind, he was still mulling over the possibility that this was some kind of hoax. At any moment, he could see his neighbors popping up from behind bushes and trees to begin laughing at his strange behavior. Perhaps they would even record it on video tape and play the scene at the Carbon Creek County Fair.
“Just because you have not heard of me does not mean I am not as I say. Consider this. Am I not the color of the earth?”
Bill nodded his head.
“And am I not standing in this field, acting as if it were mine to do with as I pleased?”
Bill nodded again.
“Did it ever occur to you that I might be telling the truth?”
Bill shook his head this time. It hadn’t occurred to him. He thought this little fellow a piece of bad cauliflower he had eaten last night causing him hallucinations of the most vivid nature.
“Perhaps it is my size that is throwing you, my addle pated twit of a jester. Perhaps you have something against small people. Perhaps you are a bigot of the worst kind...”
At that Bill spoke up. It was a tender point for him, after all.
“No sir your majesty. I don’t judge people by what they look like. I’m pretty small myself, for a person my size. If you’re a real king like you say, I suppose it don’t matter how big ya are.” And that settled it for Bill Turpin. The creature could very likely be the king of the world, just like he said. Which meant that he, Bill, could stand to be a very wealthy person of diminutive stature.
He figured he would have to play along with the jester bit and all. Of course, that would mean being humiliated, but Bill was used to that. After all, Carbon Creek was not the most size-tolerant town around. He would put up with the humiliation, and he would wait for just the right moment to make his move. He would make his wish, by golly, and it would be a good one, indeed.
Then Bill Turpin would be King of the World.
“O.K. yer majesty. What’s yer first command fer old Bill?”
“Well, my most rye headed son of siblings, I should think a celebration dance would be appropriate. Therefore I command you to dance.”
So Bill sucked up his pride and began a little soft shoe there in his field.
“No, not good enough, jester Turpentine.”
“That’s Turpin, yer majesty,” corrected Bill, picking up the pace, already panting and beginning to sweat. He was not a healthy person of diminutive stature, after all. He had spent the better part of the past decade getting drunk on his own vintage of wine brewed from the various berries natural to the area, including some which probably shouldn’t be ingested in any form, fermented or not.
Oh, sure, he had tried getting taller. He had ordered all the pills, tonics and potions money could buy. He had consulted orthopedic surgeons, specialists in the pituitary and other glands, even paid a certain lady a fair bundle to stretch him on the rack. The long and short of it was that he would never get any taller. It was in his genes, and would never leave them, no matter how hard he tried.
Unless, of course, he was King of the World. Then he would be master of all the Earth. Then, finally, he would get his wish. That was, of course, if he lived to see the end of his dance, for he was becoming quite blue in the face by this time, having overexherted himself to an obscene extent just to get in the good graces of the thumb-sized Lord of All.
The little fellow was apparently unimpressed.
“No, you blue-lipped baboon,” he ranted. “I want a real dance. Forget it. Stop your padding about. It is altogether too ridiculous. I insist you cease immediately and take me to your living quarters. I grow hungry and wish to dine.”
Bill was only too happy to stop, and, though he nearly fell over, he made the effort to bend down and extend his palm toward his new master. He lifted him and, carefully as he could, carried him back to the two room house which he called home.
It was small but neatly kept, Bill being the fastidious person he was. It also had the look of a place not-much-lived-in, which was in fact the case, considering Bill spent much of his time either out in his fields nursing a headache, or out at the tavern getting one. The home was pretty much the way the furniture company had delivered it, notwithstanding the peeling wallpaper and ancient light fixtures.
“Welcome, yer majesty,” he said, setting the tiny Uberlord on the comfortable sofa. “Just have a rest while I fix up a little something to eat.”
And a little something it was indeed. From months spent drinking in town, Bill Turpin had little in his refrigerator save a bottle of ketchup and and aged bun, which had chosen not to go to mould, preferring instead to become hard as rock. These Bill removed, and fixed as best he could into a rude sandwich, not at all fit for the King of the World, but certainly better than nothing.
At seeing the dry, ketchup smeared repast, the diminutive monarch scoffed, saying, “Bah, fool. I would not feed that to a dog, much less the King of the World. I demand you take me to the nearest village for a feast befitting a true King.”
Bill was relieved. He had worked altogether too hard for one day, and needed a drink to still his nerves and wet his wide-mouthed whistle. He would take his pint-sized King to the Carbon Creek Tavern, and there feed him a buffalo burger, while Bill could sit in the quiet annonymity to which he had become used, and quaff a gallon of pilsner so young it looked nearly as green as it tasted .
So it was into the truck, down the road, and a ten minute drive to the sleepy town of Carbon Creek; past the Gas-n-Go, past the house which strangely enough looked like a pirate ship, of all things, past the town square, the green grass of which was kept well-mown by a fat cow, to the Tavern across from the square. It was hot enough that the asphalt melted crepe soled shoes, and it was a good thing, Bill Turpin applauded himself, that he hadn’t worn his hush puppies. All the while, the King of the World, his vari-coloured garb reflecting beautifully in the hard sunshine, perched on Bill’s shoulder and regaled him all the way with an ode to nature.
“The grass, green as emerald, the cow, queen of pasture, the three-legged dog, limping but valorous, the shade, dark friend to the dog...” and so on did he hold forth, Bill hardly taking notice, for he had lost interest by the time the litany had encompassed the contents of his farm yard. Bill had little appreciation for things poetic, and besides, he was thirstier than a ‘69 Pontiac.
Bill opened the door and immediately nosed for the darkest corner of the Tavern. It was good to smell the stale beer and cigarette smoke of a hot summer’s afternoon in the cool dark tavern, and he couldn’t wait to have a seat in his favorite spot. He was so thirsty by this point he swore he could feel his togue swelling. He sat down, his back to the corner, and fiddled with the thin foil ashtray while he waited for the bar maid to come.
Let it be stated once more that Bill Turpin was a gentleman of diminutive stature. Furthermore, let it be said that he caused little notice while sober, and tended to keep quiet, even despite the fact that he had been sitting at his favorite table for nearly half an hour and the bar maid had not yet approached. He cleared his throat, and she took no notice, instead smoking a cigarette and chatting with the bartender.. The bar was not yet crowded, a hanful of young men lounging at a table across the room being the only other patrons in the Tavern. But by his watch, it was nearing four o’clock, and with Happy Hour starting, it would soon be crowded. He “ahemmed” loudly, and this time the bar maid looked in his direction, but seemed to miss him entirely. Bill was becoming quite agitated, and was by now so thirsty he felt his eyelids scratching against his eyeballs.
“You know, my good fool, that my hunger is becoming near to entirely unbearable, “ muttered the King of the World, quiet since they had sat down.
“I know,” whispered Bill to the man on his shoulder, “but they haven’t come yet.”
“I suggest you be a little more assertive then, my short, thick headed buffoon.”
Bill stood on his chair, his thirst and the King’s badgering overcoming his shyness, and called across the room in his loudest voice, “A beer for me and a buffalo burger for my little friend.”
What little conversation there was stopped, as all eyes turned to see Bill, a small man, standing upon a chair, calling for a beer and a burger for an apparently invisible compadre. One of the young men commented rudely about the “friend”, pointing to his nether regions and winking at his mates. Bill blushed an unnatural shade of purple, and sat down as quickly as he could.
“How could you put up with such an insult, you cotton headed miscreant?” whispered the King of the World, jumping up and down on Bill’s shoulder and shaking his fists.
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Why, if it were me, I’d throw them such a taunt as would curl the hairs on their heads.”
“But I don’t know any taunts,” Bill explained.
The King of the World thought for a moment, then his face literally lit up as his lips broadened into a menacing grin.
“No,” he said, “but I do,” and he proceded to hurl a barrage of insults across the room, his voice magically filling the place.
It was not the pint-sized king’s own voice which berated the bar maid, telling her to “Move those mud-flaps, Bertha!” Nor was it his own voice which interrupted the quiet conversation of the young men, who had decided to ignore Bill Turpin, but now had to pay special attention, since they had just been called “A pack of slope-headed gutter trash,” and “dull-witted jack-o-napes” besides. That last one, of course, brought the lot of them to their feet, despite the feeble backpeddling attempted by Bill, who was too flustered to realize he should be outraged at how the King of the World was treating his jester.
The young men gathered around his table, and one of them, a very tall, big boned strap of a man, looked down at Bill, who had to look up at most people, but had to look up even more at this chap. The room became quiet, the only sound being the fizzing of the natural carbonation of the bar draft on Bill’s table. The tall one glared at Bill, Bill smiled back, showing the huge gap between his front teeth. Then the tall one’s glare became a glint in the eye, followed by a mischievous smile which made Bill’s own bowels shudder. Then, with an indrawing of breath which seemed to Bill to last an eternity, but was in reality just long enough to fill the lungs, the tall one shouted the most feared of Bill’s humiliations.
“Dwarf toss, fellas...” upon which the tall one’s friends seized Bill Turpin and, clearing a space on the bar room floor, proceded to toss Bill back and forth across the empty space. Bill, of course, suffered the humiliation with as little complaint as possible, though humiliation enough he suffered for ten little people. He just kept repeating “I still got a wish, I still got a wish,” in his mind, a mantra which made it all bearable.
All the while, the King of the World sat at the edge of the table, cheering the young men on in their endeavors. He was heartily amused, judging by his reaction.
When the young men had finished their cruel game of catch, and plopped Bill unceremoniously upon his derriere back at his own table, and bought him a beer for being a good sport, the King of the World was still chuckling merrily to himself, such was his mirth over the turn of events. Bill, who was stoic as one could be through the whole ordeal, but who smiled broadly though he felt like crying when the men offered beer, turned his head to the tiny tyrant, and muttered, under his breath, “What’re you laughing at, shrimp.”
“Oh, ho...Why, I am laughing at your misfortune, fool.”
“It’s not polite, getting people in trouble like that,” Bill mumbled, taking a large swig of beer, having to wipe his chin of the draught which didn’t quite make it past the lips. “Not polite at all,” he mumbled again.
“My lad, but that’s what jesters are for. You should have read the fine print when you signed up. Everyone knows it is the King’s primary responsibility to make the jester act the fool as often and as boldly as he is capable. And, my ugly companion, as King of the World, I am honor bound to carry out this most grave duty to the utmost.”
Bill calmed a little after the explanation. But it was not due to the King’s explanation, for he had scarcely heard that. Oh, no, Bill Turpin had something up his sleeve, he was thinking, calculating, considering.
Bill Turpin was about to make his wish.
“Well, yer majesty, I suppose you got a point, there,” Bill stated, scratching his bristly and wide chin regally. “I suppose a fool ought to act like an idiot whenever the master says so.”
The King of the World puffed with pride. He had come to firmly believe that he was the owner of a perfect fool. He was visibly tickled from his tiny toes to the tip of his pointy-capped head. He was about to congratulate Bill Turpin on such a rapid turn about, when Bill beat him to the punch.
“That’s why, yer majesty, when I’m King of the World, I will have you as my jester. You seem to know so much about it, you’d be the perfect fool.”
The King of the World was taken aback. He gathered himself quickly, however, and chuckled merrily. This was rich, indeed.
“Why, fool, you had me going for a moment there. You truly are the king of fools.”
“No, your majesty. I wish to be King of the World.”
The tiny monarch raised a single eyebrow, rubbed his regal chin with a tiny tiny finger, and appeared thoughtful.
“Ah, yes, the wish, I’d almost forgotten,” replied the King of the World, still stroking his chin, but appearing as cheerful as ever.
“Very well,” he said at length, and waved his hand above his head, making a circle three times. “Bill Turpin, I make you King of the World.”
There was no smoke, no explosions nor eerie cackling noises, not the sound of devils tearing flesh, nor the smell of sulfur, nor the tingling upon one’s spine which tells that magic is afoot.
It simply came to be. One moment, Bill Turpin was a person of diminutive stature with a bubble of beer upon his chin, and the next, he was an impish monarch standing upon a terry cloth covered bar chair. And, standing next to him, a full five feet eleven inches, was as handsome a farmer as ever Bill Turpin had seen. It was so natural a transition, Bill Turpin almost forgot that he should be gloating.
“Ha ha! I’ve done it,” he finally piped in, though not with as much enthusiasm as one would suppose. “I’ve become King of the World.”
He looked up at the farmer standing beside him, apparently unaware that life had ever been any different. There was no hint of remorse on the young but already weather worn face. There was not even the slightest sign that the farmer knew he was in the presence of the King of the World. But Bill planned to change all that.
“Pardon me, my good fellow,” he began, and the farmer looked around to locate the source of the voice. “Down here,” the King of the World called up, compelling the farmer to look down at the bar seat. Bill waved and bowed regally.
“What in tarnation,” muttered the farmer, staring in wide wonder at the diminutive form before him.
“Allow me to introduce myself, my good fellow of the earth and field. I am the King of the World,” Bill bombasted, bowing yet again, and for the last time.
The farmer got the faintest glint in his eye, and, though Bill had thought he was preparing to bow in return, lifted his hard boot, setting it down firmly upon the bar chair, and, of course, upon the newly crowned King of the World.
“I’ve gotta quit drinkin’, “ the farmer muttered to himself, chucking a fiver on the table to cover the beer, trundling back to his old farm truck, back down the road a spell, to his tiny house and his whispering fields.
Copywright Todd M.A. Wandio, 2000
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