martinsmithstories

Image by Stones Gucci from Pixabay

… Or so you, the reader, might have thought, but this was, in fact, the midpoint—albeit a low point—rather than the endpoint of Joner’s quest for a fairy-tale ending.

The great whiteness became a great heaviness, and Joner opened his mouth and gagged, for it was not God’s glory weighing upon Joner’s face but gooey guano.

‘Sorry about that,’ a voice said. ‘Always happens when I eat that manna from heaven.’

Joner opened his eyes, and there before him stood a man, perfect in form and feature except for one flaw. A wing. An enormous wing. An enormous white swan’s wing pointing away from the great woods and towards the sweeping lowlands beyond.

‘Look, Joner. Your happy-ever-after awaits.’

‘Am I dead?’ Joner said as birdshit grit ground upon his parched tongue. ‘Who are you? Are you God?’

‘No, Joner. This is a fairy tale, not scripture. I am Deus Ex Machina. The twelfth brother. And I tell you, arise and go forth to where I point, for there you will find your happy-ever-after.’

Joner raised his weary body upon a frail arm and looked beyond the black woods, beyond the white wing, beyond the green hills and brown plateaus, until before a blue sea, his eyes discerned an ivory castle topped with golden turrets and waving red flags that beckoned him to come hither.

‘Happy-ever-after, you say?’ Joner said. ‘That castle?’

‘Yes, that is HQ for the greatest and fairest kingdom of them all. The Kingdom of Happy-Ever-After.’

As hope swelled in Joner’s heart, grit flowed through his veins and reinvigoration steeled his legs. And he stood.

‘But first,’ the swan man said, ‘let’s get you covered up. Can’t have you rolling up to Happy-Ever-After buck naked like that emperor of olden days, can we?’ And he placed his enormous, white wing upon Joner’s naked flesh and clothed him in a dazzling yellow.

‘What the hell is this?’ Joner said as he ran his hands up and down his new clothes.

‘It’s a banana suit.’

‘You’re kidding me, right? Couldn’t you deck me out in some princely robes or a suit of shining armour? Hell, I’d even wear a donkey skin if you have one in a size M.’

‘Characters dressed in banana suits are a much under-represented demographic in fairy tales. Now shut up and go forth.’ And the wing and the swan man disappeared.

With a mumbled ‘I look ridiculous’, Joner set out upon the road—with a cautious tread to avoid peeling, splitting or slipping on his banana suit—and headed towards the great castle. All day he walked, and before him the castle grew in size and splendour. At dusk, Joner reached a great moat and crossed a mighty footbridge guarded by a bearded troll and three goateed goats playing cards. A sign above them read: Lingering trip-trappers will be prosecuted.

‘Move on,’ the troll gruffly said.

Joner entered the castle’s bailey through a grand golden gate, and as he gazed upwards in awe at the mighty towers and battlements that rose above him, he bumped into a blithesome, motley-attired man wearing a belled fool’s cap and holding a ribboned marotte.

‘Sorry,’ Joner said.

‘That’s OK,’ the man said, looking Joner up and down.

The man stood at the end of a long queue that wound along a street paved in gold, all the way up to the doors of a grand palace.

‘Hi, I’m Albie,’ he said, shaking his marotte in Joner’s face.

‘Hi, I’m Joner. Why the queue?’

‘Have you not heard, Joner? The king and queen are going into early retirement, taking an annuity and leaving the rest of their obscene wealth to whomever can make their sullen daughter laugh.’

Again, Albie rattled his marotte in Joner’s face.

‘Sounds simple enough if you know a few gags.’

‘Not only that. You get to wed the princess. I hear she’s a great beauty, the fairest in the kingdom and beyond, though no one outside the palace has ever seen her. But beware, amigo. If you fail to make the princess laugh, you’ll lose your head.’

Albie gave the marotte a vicious shake, only for its head to dislodge from its handle and fall to the ground.

‘Gee, that’s a tad harsh,’ Joner said as he ran his fingers around the collar of his banana suit. ‘But I’ll give it a go.’ Why not? he thought. His gut instinct told him this was his destiny, his fairy-tale ending. After all, he was in Happy-Ever-After, and a princess, a royal title and a decent booty of real estate, cash and other worldly treasures were only one decent gag from his grasp.

For two hours, Joner shuffled forward in the queue until only Albie stood between him and the enormous doors to the great palace.

‘Wish me luck,’ Albie said as the great doors opened. Two grim-faced guards escorted him inside.

‘Good luck,’ Joner said, but he chuckled to himself at the futility of Albie’s quest. As if a variegated fool like that could humour the princess. She’d more than likely reach for a brown paper bag. Nice knowing you, Albo.

Muffled voices came from within the palace, followed by a prolonged silence. Then came a desperate shout, cut short by a swoosh and a splatty thud. The great doors opened and the flushed-faced guards escorted Albie from the hall—his head carried in a straw basket and his decapitated body dragged along the ground.

‘Good luck, Joner,’ Albie gurgled from within the basket. ‘It’s a tough audience in there tonight. I was on a roll, opening with a “Knock-knock”. The king replied, “Who’s there?” I said, “Albie.” And he asked, “Albie who?” But, alas, that’s when I froze. I couldn’t remember the punchline, and the royal family waited and waited, and then the princess yawned. The guards grabbed me and held my neck over the chopping block, and as the axe swung down, I remembered the punchline and shouted, “I’ll be heading off now.” A life tip for you, Joner: the key to a good joke is always in the timing. Miss it, and you’ll die in front of an unforgiving audience. Anyway, Joner, I wish you the best of luck. Break a leg but, hopefully, not your neck.’

A guard called, ‘Next.’ Joner stepped forward, and two armed guards flanked him and escorted him through the great doors and down a great hall until he stood before three golden thrones. Upon the middle throne sat a tiny, thin man wearing a golden crown so big that it pushed his ears out, his nose down and his body deep into the throne cushion. His golden slippers dangled above the plush red carpet. To his right, a woman—twice the height and thrice the width of the guard who stood at her side—sat squeezed into her throne. Her head slumped between her gigantic breasts, and only her crown and flowing silver hair were visible above the collar of her regal red robe. But Joner only had eyes for the third throne, for upon it sat a beautiful young woman with raven hair, mocha skin and jade eyes. Indeed, Perfection herself, but for one feature: a sullen, miserable scowl.

‘I am King Bijou,’ the little man said, ‘and this is Queen Enersha, and this is my daughter, Princess Desponda. What is your name, young man?’

‘Joner, Your Majesty.’ And Joner bowed.

‘And where are you from?’

‘Beyond the great woods, Your Majesty.’

‘Ah, a young man of mystery. And what do you have for us, today?’

But before Joner could start, a titter came from the throne to the king’s left and grew to a giggle, then a chuckle, then a chortle, then a cackle and lastly a great snort amidst belly laughing.

‘Ha-ha-ha,’ the princess said. ‘Oh My God! It’s a walking, talking banana. Ha-ha-ha.’ And great tears flowed down her rosy cheeks.

The king extended his arms towards Joner and said, ‘Joner. My son.’

‘His son? Ha-ha-ha. Oh My God! You’re killing me.’ The princess held her sides.

‘You have earned my daughter’s hand in marriage.’

‘Marriage? To him? Ha-ha-ha. Oh My God! I can barely breathe.’ The princess unclipped the top button of her gown and fanned herself.

‘And tomorrow, you shall wed.’

‘Tomorrow? Ha-ha-ha. It just gets better and better. Ha-ha-ha. Oh God! I think I’m going to pee myself.’ The princess cupped her hands over her crotch and jiggled up and down. ‘Wedded bliss? To a walking, talking banana? Ha-ha-ha. I bet those Grimm Brothers couldn’t dream up this stuff. Ha-ha-ha.’

The king signalled for the princess’s lady-in-waiting to approach and stand before him. He leant forward and whispered in her ear, and she nodded in understanding. The king then returned his attention to Joner.

‘Joner, my guards shall escort you to the bridegroom’s chamber,’ the king said, ‘and if you survive beyond tonight’s blue moon, my kingdom and my daughter shall be yours.’

‘Survive the blue moon? Ha-ha-ha,’ the princess said, being escorted from her throne. ‘Good grief! I have peed myself. Ha-ha-ha. I hope you don’t bruise easily, Banana Boy. Ha-ha-ha.’ And the princess, guided with a firm yet lady-in-waiting-like hand, disappeared by a side door, and howls of laughter echoed from the royal corridors.

The king shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sorry about that, Joner, particularly the disparaging remarks about your outfit. It’s been a while since she’s had a hearty laugh. A lot of pent-up mirth in there.’

‘No problem,’ Joner said. Hell, why did he care? This time tomorrow he’d be a king—filthy rich, omnipotent and bedding a beautiful queen, albeit a slightly nutty one. Why, he’d gladly wear a whole fruit salad if that’s what it took.

He bid the king good evening and doffed his peel at the queen. The queen remained asleep upon her throne.

That night the palace partied. All but one in the castle attended the hen’s party, and they drank and ate and danced and debauched. Meanwhile, the buck’s party was a more sombre affair, for its only guest, Joner, hid himself in his chamber, keen to avoid any trouble that might prevent him from collecting his prize the next day. He tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep due to the incessant hubbub of revellers that filled the castle and his excitement about getting his fairy-tale ending.

The noise from the partying below quiesced as midnight approached, and Joner settled down to his last night of sleep as a bachelor.

Boom.

A startled Joner rose and peered into the dark. Only silence and blackness returned his stare, so he lay down, pulled his bedding up under his chin and fantasised about counting his soon-to-be dungeoned jewels, until his eyelids heavied and then closed and sleep swaddled him.

Boom!

With a rapidly beating heart, Joner leapt from his bed and fumbled his way to the window and looked out. In the distance, lightning streaked and thunder rumbled. A storm, he thought. Him, scared of a storm? How silly. All this pre-wedding nonsense was making him jittery. He returned to his bed and lay down. Chuckling at his silliness, he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

BOOM! BOOM!

Again, Joner leapt from his bed. A dull, flickering light, muted by disturbed dust, glimmered outside his chamber, a chamber that no longer had a chamber door, for it lay unhinged upon the chamber floor. As the dust settled and the light brightened, Joner gasped, for there, outside the chamber, stood the queen with a candle in her enormous hand and her head still lowered between her enormous breasts. As the chamber air cleared, Joner blanched, for the queen was naked! Naked, and looking like she hadn’t used a razor recently. Ever, in fact. By God, Joner thought, she was huge, hairy and—given her heaving chest and the panting breaths echoing within—horny.

The queen stepped forward, bent low and attempted to squeeze her gargantuan girth through the doorway. Joner backed himself against the chamber wall opposite as the queen’s hairy, blubbery, pink flesh filled the room. Fight or flight warred within Joner’s head. With a final wriggle and wet pop, the concupiscent queen was in! And flight won the war over fight, for Joner—circumnavigating the queen’s Brobdingnagian bulk and grasping hands with a nimbleness that surprised even him—was out! And about!

Down the corridor Joner ran.

And the queen’s booming footfall followed.

‘Help! Help!’ Joner shouted.

Down the stairs Joner ran.

And the queen’s thunderous tread followed.

‘Help! Help!’ Joner shouted.

Into the great hall Joner ran.

And the queen’s strident stomp followed.

‘Help! Help!’ Joner shouted.

The sight of hen-partiers filled Joner’s rapidly beating heart with hope of salvation, but there was not a cluck amongst them, for all lay in a stupor from the evening’s revelry.

Out the grand palace and into the stormy night air Joner ran. Through the great gates and across the footbridge over the black moat Joner ran. Down a dusty road and over a grassed plateau Joner ran. And still the queen in her lust pursued him.

‘Help! Help!’ Joner shouted, but only the rumblings of distant thunder replied to his desperate plea. He paused to regain his breath and peered back into the night to see if he’d put distance between himself and the randy, raging royal. But, alas, no, for lightning streaked across the night sky, revealing the queen closing fast. Joner cursed his misfortune, for it was only then, by the light of the storm’s flickering anger, that he saw his pursuer sporting a pair of Nike running shoes. Just his luck his fairy tale would have an inopportune product placement aiding his antagonist and leading to his doom.

Joner turned and fled into the dark until he neared the sea, for he heard booming waves. Sanctuary, he thought. Surely, given her size, the queen would sink like a boulder if she ventured into the black waters. If not, maybe the cold midnight waters might quell her lust.

On and on Joner sped into the night until he skidded to a sudden stop. The booming sea lay not before him but below him, for he stood at the edge of a precipice, and in the black below, the sea boomed and hissed as it struck and retreated from the cliff face. The moon shed its cloud cover, and its bluish light glinted upon the jagged rocks below as they bared their craggy fangs. Joner sighed in relief at having neither plummeted nor perished.

A great shadow fell upon Joner. He turned and gasped, for there before him stood the queen, blocking his escape route. Still her head remained buried deep between her enormous breasts, and still her naked flesh—corpulent, hirsute and pallid—quivered with carnal expectancy. Joner shuffled backward until his heels hung over the cliff edge.

The queen lifted her huge, pudgy arms towards the moon. Her head slowly rose until her face appeared. The light of the full moon, blue and haunting, shone upon the queen and lit her face and revealed a flowing blue beard and a dense monobrow. She took a deep, deep breath and from her mouth there came a long, loud, primordial howl. And Joner released a blood-curdling, pants-pissing, undie-shitting scream.

With another mighty roar, the queen charged forward. Joner turned and leapt from the cliff’s edge, preferring a quick death on the jagged rocks below to a slow ravaging by the bearded beast rushing towards him. As he plunged to a not-so-happy ending, he yearned for the old days with his parents, when life was a little less complicated and a lot less hazardous. Damn the impetuosity of youth! he lamented as he braced himself for a skull-crushing death. But it was not Joner’s fate to perish at that moment, for an immense wave, timely and fortuitous, swept over the jagged rocks, and Joner plunged into the icy waters, and the retreating wave dragged him out to sea.

Joner surfaced, drew a breath and counted his blessings. His fairy tale was still alive. No need for sentimentality and guilt over his loser parents. He was back in the game, rounding third base and heading toward home plate. As Joner waded in the chilly black waters, the moon shone down upon the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff, and there lay the naked queen with her skull half-crushed and her beard a bloody silver.

‘What a shame,’ Joner said. ‘Well, at least I won’t have to exchange banal pleasantries and pretend to be nice to my mother-in-law at birthday parties and Christmas.’

He’d done it! he rejoiced. He’d survived the blue moon. He’d survived the blue beard. All that stood between him and his fairy-tale ending was a warm bath, a hot breakfast and a couple of tepid ‘I do’s’. And Joner’s resolve and stroke strengthened as he swam shoreward.

But poor Joner was not to get his fairy-tale ending, nor his happy-ever-after, for a great wall of water rose before him, and a huge leviathan—with its albino flesh glowing blue under the moonlight—rose above the surface and opened its jaws and swallowed Joner and his fairy-tale ending whole.

It is said that those brave enough to venture near the albino’s pod can hear—amidst the slap of breaching fins, the whoosh of gushing spouts and the clicks and whistles of cetacean song—the ghostly lamentations of a cursed soul imprisoned behind baleen bars, for there haunts, unhappily ever after, Joner and his wretched wail.