martinsmithstories

Image credit: BarelyDevi from Pixabay

Luckless Larry slept until late that day and woke feeling a tad peckish and a little cold. But he knew he was on a lucky streak, so he decided to roll with his luck and climb the silver beanstalk and see what riches lay at its top.

Up and up he climbed, above the barn roof, above the hawks in midday glide, above the building storm clouds, until the silver beanstalk thinned, and he stepped out onto a street covered in a dreary grey bitumen. Across the street sat a sombre shopfront, above which rested a sign that read: Cinders and Ash. Luckless Larry crossed the street and entered the shop. A bell above the door jangled.

‘Be with you in a minute,’ a voice said from behind a grey curtain. ‘Just take a number from the box.’

Luckless Larry walked to the counter and plucked a card from a grey box. He read the card: Welcome to Cinders and Ash. You are customer number 1. When served, ask for Ashley. Lucky Willy, he thought. Number One.

Still the owner of the voice remained hidden behind the grey curtain, so Luckless Larry turned and perused the shop. The walls held gloomy, grey shelves, all dusty and seemingly empty, and there was no signage, no lighting and no other customers.

‘Now, sir, how may I help you?’ a sweet voice said from behind him.

He turned to the counter and said, ‘It says here to—’

But he gagged on the rest of his sentence, for before him stood the ugliest woman he had ever seen. If her hooked nose pointed north, then her left eye stared north-west and the right gazed nor’-nor’-east. A huge wart rested upon the foremost of her six chins, and upon it a thick, wiry, grey hair sprouted out like a hissing serpent. A row of grey bristles sat above her upper lip. Every second tooth was missing, and those left were yellow and twisted. A bushy, grey monobrow swept between her squinty eyes and pronounced forehead, and her ears were more elephantine than maidenly. Her grey, greasy hair hung limp from a severe middle part.

‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said. ‘Ashley doesn’t co-own this franchise anymore. She cashed in and married up. She’s gone all hoity-toity now, mixing with the high and mighty. Said she no longer wanted dirty nails, calloused knees and singed hair. Last week, she received this last-minute invite to the local ball, and next thing you know, there was a knock on our door, a grinning prince on one knee and a glass slipper fitting like a glove. Not a shoehorn in sight. Jammy bugger inherited her mother’s dainty foot size. Alas, I got these stompers from my father.’ The woman hitched her hoary miniskirt up, placed her foot on the counter and displayed an enormous clodhopper of a boot and a pale, chubby, hairy shin. Luckless Larry raised his hand to his mouth to suppress a bilious burp. ‘I’m Clorinda, by the way, Clorinda Cinders. I’m Ashley’s stepsister.’

Luckless Larry nodded a hello. To quell his queasiness, he lowered his watery eyes and focused on the shop floor.

‘So,’ Clorinda said. ‘How may I help you?’

Luckless Larry said, ‘I have this.’ He held out the card. He glanced up, but the queasiness returned, so he retreated his gaze to the shop floor.

‘Oh My God! It’s the Chosen One. And our very first customer. Who’d have thought?’ She brushed her manky hair behind her ears and smiled a gappy, yellow grin. ‘Wait. Wait. Let me get my sister, Tisbe. She’s been dying to meet you. But I must warn you, though. She’s the good-looking one.’ She leant into a microphone and said in a sultry tone, ‘Customer Service, Counter One.’

A stomping of feet shook the shop fixtures, and the grey curtain parted and out walked Clorinda’s sister, indeed her twin, identical in every aspect of her look and dress except for one feature: her eyes, which did not gaze upon two separate worlds like her sister’s but, rather, stared criss-crossed upon the bridge of her pudgy nose.

‘Tisbe, look, it’s the Chosen One.’

The grey hair on Tisbe’s chin mole quivered like a water diviner’s stick upon striking water. ‘Oh My God! Oh My God! It’s him. At last.’ She nudged her sister and said, ‘Ask him.’

‘Ask him what?’

‘You know what.’

‘Oh, that. All right.’ Clorinda half-turned so her right eye focused on Luckless Larry. ‘My sister wants to know if you are available. You know, single.’

Luckless Larry’s mouth dried, his stomach churned and his face whitened. ‘I … I … I’m sorry, no,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I’m dating a special someone. For quite a while now. In fact, we’re practically engaged. Look, your sister is a real stunner. And I bet she has a lovely personality. It’s a shame we didn’t cross eyes—sorry, I mean cross paths—a couple of years ago. I’d have swept her off her feet.’

‘Awww. You hear that, Tisbe. He’s a romantic. And you’re next in line.’

Tisbe released a squeal of delight.

Luckless Larry cleared his throat. ‘Now, about this card I have here?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Clorinda said. ‘Of course, you’re here to collect your prize.’

His prize! He knew it. Lucky Willy, on a roll. Let’s hope the girls produce something better than that honking duck, although it had been a tasty treat. No, not an animal. Give him something a bit more tangible, a bit more liquidatable, so he could cash-out and compile a sizeable pot to place on the punt. Yes, let his prize be more kitty than goose.

‘Tisbe,’ Clorinda said, ‘if you could do the honours, please.’

Tisbe patted her hair, adjusted her skimpy skirt and cupped and shifted her gargantuan breasts. She moved around to the front of the counter, released a sultry purr as she brushed past Luckless Larry and walked over to an empty shelf. She placed a small step ladder in front of the grey shelf, stepped up to the middle rung and reached up on tippy-toes.

‘Oh, oh, I can’t quite reach it. Mr Chosen One, would you be so kind as to hold the ladder steady so I can stand on the top step?’

‘Umm … sure,’ Luckless Larry said.

He kept his eyes focused on his toes and walked over towards Tisbe. Whatever you do, he thought, don’t look up. He took hold of the sides of the ladder and held it steady and his eyes downcast.

Whatever you do, he thought, don’t look up.

‘Why, thank you, Mr Chosen One, you’re so kind,’ Tisbe said, and she climbed to the top step.

Whatever you do, he thought, don’t look up.

Tisbe reached higher and higher with her outstretched arms. ‘Almost … almost … almost …’

Whatever you do, he thought, don’t look up.

Tisbe’s skirt rose higher and higher. ‘Almost … almost … almost …’

Whatever you do, he thought, don’t look up.

‘Got it!’

And in his enthusiasm to see his prize, Luckless Larry looked up. He came upon a pair of enormous boots and became bilious. Then came her hairy calves and chubby knees, and his nausea grew. Go no further, you fool, he thought. No prize is worth the torture that lay above. But still the prize beckoned, and once again his eyes rose, only to confront the beginning of her pudgy thighs: a forest of hairy growth, a sea of blubbery flesh pocked with cellulite and streaked like a blue-veined cheese. And bile rose to the back of his throat.

He strained to prevent his head from rising further, to seek refuge in the succour of her lower thighs, but, alas, his eyes rose higher and higher, seeking his prize. Lower thigh, middle thigh, upper thigh, and then he screamed as it came into sight: a big, shiny silver box, bedazzling in its glitter and topped with a grey bow.

‘Isn’t it magnificent?’ Tisbe said.

‘Oh My God! Yes!’ Luckless Larry said.

‘Can’t wait to get your hands on it, can you?’

‘Oh My God! No! No! I can’t!’

‘Don’t you just want to open it and dive right in?’

‘Oh My God! Yes! Yes!’ The glaring glitter blinded Luckless Larry. He removed his left hand from the ladder, reached up and touched his prize. A shiver ran down his spine as he rejoiced at his good luck.

‘Oooooooooooooooh!’ Tisbe said.

Luckless Larry removed his right hand from the ladder, reached up and grasped his prize in his hands. He gasped at the wonder he beheld.

‘Whoooooooooooooa!’ Tisbe said, and she tumbled from the wobbling ladder and crashed upon a distracted Luckless Larry.

His world turned sable, silent and still. Deafened by décolletage and blinded by blubber, he thrashed his limbs about as asphyxiation assailed his lungs. Oh, he lamented, just his bad luck to have his hands on his prize, only to drown in a sea of flubbery flesh. But just as his thrashing and hopes ceased, light and air and sound filled his world.

‘Is he OK?’ he heard Clorinda say.

‘I … I … I’m not sure,’ Tisbe said.

‘Is he breathing?’

‘I … I … I don’t think so.’

‘Well, what are you waiting for? Resuscitate him!’

And as Luckless Larry drew in a life-renewing breath, he opened his eyes and witnessed Tisbe’s foetid mouth lock upon his mouth and nose. His scream got no further than her throat. Hard she blew, and his limbs recommenced thrashing. Harder she blew, and Luckless Larry tasted black pudding and surströmming and haggis and rotten eggs and sour milk. As Tisbe drew in a huge breath through her nose, Luckless Larry knew his luck had run out. He allowed his arms to go limp, closed his eyes and awaited his foul fate.

‘Tisbe, is he alive?’ Clorinda said.

With a pop, Tisbe unsuckered her lips from Luckless Larry’s face and said, ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Is he breathing?’

‘No. I’ll try again.’

Like bloody hell you will, Luckless Larry thought.

But his stir to life came too late, for Clorinda elbowed her sister aside and locked her mouth over his mouth and nose. And as she blew hard, he yearned for Tisbe’s sweet breath, for Clorinda’s breath smelled and tasted like feculent waste tapped directly from a sewage pipe.

This time he knew his fate was sealed. He felt Clorinda’s chest swell and swell to near bursting, and he gave himself his last rites with an and-that-was-that benediction. He spread his arms above his head and looked to the heavens. Please let it be over quickly, he prayed. But a flash of silver caught the top of his eyes, and he raised his head and beheld, before the spread legs of an anxious Tisbe, the silver box. He strained his arms and fingertips, and his fingers spidered along the shop floor until he touched the box. And he grasped it in his hands and raised his arms and brought the box down upon Clorinda’s head. She swayed, then teetered, and with all his might, Luckless Larry pushed her corpulent frame from his supine body. She hit the floor with a thud, and he scrambled to his feet, panting and grasping the silver box against his chest.

‘Oh God! You’re alive!’ Tisbe said.

‘Yes,’ Luckless Larry said. ‘Look, I have to go. It’s late.’

‘But won’t you stay for dinner? We’re having lutefisk.’

‘That’s a very kind offer, but if you ladies don’t mind, I’ll take a rain check.’

‘Oh well, maybe next time.’

Not in my lifetime, Luckless Larry thought. ‘Look, I must dash. Thanks for the prize.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘And sorry about your sister. I hope she will be all right.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s not the first time that’s happened.’

He headed towards the shopfront door. ‘Bye, then.’

‘Bye, Chosen One. And cherish your loot, for it will bring you great prosperity.’

Luckless Larry paused. ‘Loot? Loot, you say?’

‘Yes. Each morning, when the sun’s first ray shines upon your loot, a replenished prosperity will be bestowed upon you. But you must treat your loot with care.’

Good God! Luckless Larry thought. Loot. Lots of loot. Replenished every day. His own ATM. His lucky streak to go on into perpetuity. He turned and rushed out the door with a final ‘Bye’.

‘Goodbye, Chosen One.’ Tisbe gave a forlorn wave, and a crystal tear trickled down her pudgy cheek and rested upon her bristly upper lip.

Down, down the beanstalk Luckless Larry climbed, holding the boxed loot under his arm. Below flashing lightning, booming thunder and stinging rain, below the swallow nests in the treetops, below the barn roof, until he set foot on the ground outside the barn.

He retreated inside, lit a fire and warmed his chilled hands. Once feeling returned to his fingers, he dropped to his knees before the silver box and untied the grey bow. ‘This is it!’ he said. A box of loot. All his. Replenished at first light every morning. Happy days, here he comes.

Luckless Larry raised the box lid and beheld … what the hell is that? he thought. ‘What the hell is that?’ he said. ‘A mandolin?’ He picked up an instrument of silver strings and a woody, half-egged body and strummed the instrument, which released a twang when a string snapped.

‘Ouch!’ a voice said.

‘Who said that?’ Luckless Larry said.

‘Me.’ Two sparkling eyes appeared on either side of the mandolin’s bridge.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘I am Sungmunster, the Lord of the Lute.’

‘What loot?’ Luckless Larry looked into the empty box.

‘This lute. Moi. I, your servant. Play me at first light every morning, and those upon whom my dulcet tones fall shall come bearing gifts.’

‘Really?’ So that is it! The lute produced the loot. Sure, it’d be a struggle to rise at dawn every morning, and he didn’t have a musical bone in his body, but, by the sound of it, he could have a pair of tinned ears and it wouldn’t matter. Just strum every morning, and the lute munster would work its magic.

‘Now,’ the lute said, ‘time for bed. I need my beauty sleep. See you tomorrow. Sweet dreams, Chosen One.’ And the lute closed its eyes and became heavy in Luckless Larry’s hands.

Luckless Larry placed his last log on the fire, settled himself upon his straw bed, snuggled up under his damp coat and lost himself to the sweetest of dreams.

A screeching twang woke him. He sat and looked about. With the fire reduced to glowing embers, the barn inside was dark and cold, and the world outside, black.

A voice beside Luckless Larry sang off-key, ‘Hmmmm … ahhhh … hmmmm … ahhhh … hmmmm … ahhhh.’

Luckless Larry looked down at the lute.

‘Pfffffffffft … ssssssssssss … pffffffffffft … ssssssssssss … pffffffffffft … ssssssssssss.’

‘What are you doing?’ he said as he shivered.

‘Ooooooooooooo … eeeeeeeeee … ooooooooooooo … eeeeeeeeee … ooooooooooooo … eeeeeeeeee. I’m doing my vocal warm-ups.’

‘What?’ He placed his frozen hands under his armpits.

‘My vocal warm-ups. You can’t expect me to perform at my best if I haven’t warmed up. Tra-la-la … tra-la-la … tra-la-la.’

‘Well, could you keep it down? I’m trying to sleep. It’s hard enough I’m freezing with no fire, without you banging on like a throttled chook.’ Luckless Larry lay down and pulled up his collar and wrapped his arms around himself.

‘Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do!’

Luckless Larry put his index fingers in his ears.

‘… do, ti, la, so, fa, mi, re, do! … Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do … do, ti, la, so, fa, mi, re, do!’

Luckless Larry stuffed straw in his ears.

‘Sally sells seashells by the seashore.’

Luckless Larry shivered and swore.

‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.’

Luckless Larry trembled and cursed.

‘Around the rugged rocks the ragged rascal ran.’

‘Enough!’ Luckless Larry said, and he picked up the lute and dashed it upon the ground. The strings snapped with excruciating twangs, and the body cracked with a splintering boom. And Luckless Larry gathered the pieces, threw them on the embers and stoked the fire to life.

‘And that was that,’ he said, and he soon settled—with warm toes and blissful silence—into a deep sleep.