martinsmithstories

Image by Heather Plew from Pixabay

Frank knew neither how far nor how long he fell. He landed with a sudden thud next to a burbling stream in a clearing surrounded by a dense, green jungle. He blinked to allow his eyes to adjust to the mottled light filtered by the canopy. Raising his head, he took a deep breath and savoured the fresh air that filled his lungs. Apart from a heaviness resting on the back of his neck, he had to admit he felt good—no, not good, great. Invigorated, optimistic, self-assured. Why, if he’d known better, he could have sworn he felt a tad valorous.

Frank rose to his feet. All four of them. He stretched and yawned and shook and—hang on! he thought, four feet? He glanced down and saw four enormous furry feet! What. The. Hell? he thought. He walked over to the stream and looked into the water and staring back at him was a regal, fearsome lion with a mighty yet weighty mane.

‘Not what I expected,’ he said, ‘but how cool’s this?’

Frank bared his fearsome fangs and swished his tail tuft and tossed his mighty mane and thought himself to be the pride of the pride.

A mouse scurried from the undergrowth. It moved towards Frank, but when it looked up and saw him, its eyes widened and whitened, and it turned to escape.

‘Halt!’ Frank said with a booming voice that surprised him. James Earl Jones, eat your heart out, he thought.

The mouse froze and turned back towards Frank and cringed an obsequious, exaggerated bow.

‘Who are you?’ Frank said.

‘I am your most humble servant, Your Majesty,’ the mouse said. Its nose tipped the ground before it.

‘And who am I?’

‘Why, my Lord, you are Braveheart, King of the Jungle, Master of his Domain.’ The mouse shot a look toward the distant foliage. ‘M … M … May I depart, Your Majesty?’

Frank waved the mouse on with a regal flourish of his paw. The mouse took a step toward the sanctuary of the dense foliage.

‘Halt!’ Frank said, bringing his huge paw down upon the mouse’s tail.

‘Your Majesty?’

‘Come and stand before me.’

‘My Lord?’

‘Come, stand before me.’

‘With the greatest deference, my Lord, but why?’

‘There’s something I wish to try. Something I’ve always wanted to do.’

‘M … M … My Lord, I have a young family for whom I am the sole provider. Please, have mercy on me.’

‘Silence!’

The mouse crept forward and cowered before its king. Frank leant forward, and as he moistened his lips with a sweep of his tongue, the mouse closed its eyes and shook from top to tail tip. Frank opened his mouth wide and released a rrroooaaarrr.

The mouse’s ears pinned back, its cheeks ballooned, its jowls fluttered, its whiskers danced and its eyes wept until, despite bracing itself and leaning forward, its whole body pushed backwards, leaving deep furrows where its gripping feet had been displaced, until it tipped over and slid further backwards on its back.

When Frank completed his roar, the mouse staggered to its feet, patted down its dust-filled coat, wiped the tears from its streaked cheeks and ran its hand through the fur on top of its head.

‘Most impressive, Your Majesty, a right regal roar. And now may I be dismissed?’

‘Go.’

‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ The mouse took a step back, paused and, with a flourishing arm, bowed long and low before Frank. It returned to its standing position and said, ‘My Lord, might I be so bold as to offer you my most humble advice?’

‘Granted.’

‘In all humility, Your Majesty, might I suggest my Lord suck upon the occasional peppermint and maintain a more regular oral hygiene regimen. It is my humble opinion that sovereign authority can be somewhat undermined when dispensed with a hint of the commoner’s halitosis.’ And the mouse dashed towards and disappeared into the jungle.

Aside from the smart-arsed comment at the end, Frank thought, that was pretty cool. A real adrenaline rush. And that had been only a growl. Imagine if he gave the roar the full bore. He looked about the clearing. All was still and silent except for the trickle and burble of water and the click of cicadas hidden within the dense foliage. Hey, why not go the full monty? he thought. Take this baby out on the road and give it the full throttle? Why, wasn’t he the King of the Jungle, Master of his Domain, and couldn’t he do whatever he wanted?

Frank set his legs further apart and braced his feet upon the ground. He’d seen that Pavarotti documentary, and he knew that it was all about the diaphragm. Control it and the rest would take care of itself. He drew in a deep breath, raised his head and RRROOOAAARRREEEDDD.

At first, Frank was somewhat surprised, indeed a tad disappointed, that only the water ceased flowing and the cicadas stopped clicking. But then the mouse, its eyes wide and white, shot out from the jungle. As it passed Frank, it said, ‘Make haste, your Majesty, make haste!’ It scurried over to and disappeared into the foliage on the other side of the clearing.

At least someone heard me, Frank thought.

The foliage before him shook and swayed. The boom of stampeding hooves approached as dust clouds rose above the verdure. Onto the clearing burst antelopes, baboons, ostriches, hippopotamuses, flamingos, giraffes, cheetahs, and all other manner of God’s creatures, great and small. All wild with urgency. All manic with fear. They surged past Frank and headed towards and through the mouse’s exit point, flattening the undergrowth in their haste. Last came a huge python, and as it slid by, it hissed, ‘Ssssave yoursssself, Ssssire!’

From what? Frank thought.

The huge roar that came from the jungle, followed by the crack and crash of falling trees and the booming thumps of approaching steps, suggested to Frank that whatever the ‘what’ was, it was big and coming. Fast. More roars, more cracks and crashes, more booming thumps, and the ‘what’ shadowed the clearing. Frank looked up and gasped, for before him stood an enormous Tyrannosaurus Rex. But Frank did not have time to blink, let alone swallow, for the prehistoric beast rushed across the clearing in a dozen strides—its little arms raised and pumping hard, its leathered hide taut and glistening, its rasping breath short and rapid—and followed the path of destruction made by the stampede that preceded it.

Well, Frank thought, you don’t see that every day.

A flash of grey caught his eye. An old man rushed towards him. He wore a grey cloak, a grey wizard’s hat, a long grey beard and carried a long grey staff.

‘Hey,’ Frank called out, ‘you look exactly like Sir Ian McKellen. Can I have your autograph?’

The old man looked back from where he’d come and then at Frank. His ashen face trembled and the staff shook in his gnarled hands.

‘Fly, you fool!’ he said. ‘Fly!’ He surged past Frank and disappeared into the dense undergrowth.

Fly from what? Frank thought.

No sooner had he turned around than a dozen children, squealing and crying, rushed into the clearing, followed by an axe-wielding maniac dressed head to toe in silver. Frank stepped forward to place himself between the children and the psychopath, but the children swerved past him and rushed on. Only the last child stopped and paused, but not for long, for he raised his foot and stomped on Frank’s front paw and laughed and sprinted on, shouting in a deep, manly voice, ‘Follow the yellow brick road! Follow the yellow brick road! Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick road.’

Little shit! Frank thought.

The maniac in silver, still with the axe frozen in his arms raised above his head, squeaked past Frank.

‘Hey, slow down,’ Frank said. ‘You’ll have a heart attack.’

‘Can’t stop,’ the man puffed. ‘Gotta chop chop! You would, too, if you knew what’s coming.’ With clanging and dinging, he stiff-legged on.

What next? Frank thought.

He turned to look back and collided with a scrawny man wearing loose, ragged clothing. Frank remained upright, but the man lay sprawled on the ground with his limbs askew. Frank thought him a vagrant who’d been sleeping rough in the cold, for his hat, collar, sleeves and socks were stuffed with straw, and guano soiled his battered hat and the shoulders of his threadbare shirt. Frank thought he had knocked the poor fellow out cold, but the man stirred and picked himself up off the ground. He stood and began dusting himself down.

‘Sorry about that,’ a voice said. ‘You knocked the stuffing out of me.’ Frank gasped a second time, for though the man stood tall and straight, his voice and his head rested at his feet. Good God! Frank thought, I’ve decapitated the poor fellow!

‘No time for repairs,’ the head on the ground said. ‘She’s coming. And if you had any semblance of a brain, you wouldn’t stuff around.’ And the man picked up his head and carried it in his hands as he hobbled away.

Can this day get any weirder? Frank thought.

‘Ahoy there,’ a voice shouted from above.

Frank looked up and saw an elderly man drift by in a basket carried by a huge emerald balloon. He wore a dapper emerald suit and hat and waved a walking stick.

‘By Oz, the Great and Terrible,’ the man shouted, ‘she’s coming!’

‘Who’s she?’ Frank yelled up at the man.

The balloon man cupped his hands and shouted back, but his words were lost in the wind as it strengthened and pushed the balloon and the man out of earshot and, soon after, sight.

Who’s this ‘she’ everyone was warning him about? Frank pondered.

A dog’s yap came from within the foliage. A girl wearing a blue-and-white checked gingham dress over a white blouse, blue socks and ruby shoes emerged. She held a cane basket within which sat a yapping terrier dog. The girl rushed towards Frank, and her pigtails whipped from side to side as she looked back every couple of steps to where she’d entered the clearing.

When the girl reached Frank, she stopped and, puffing and panting, bent forward and placed her free hand upon her knee.

‘You … must … flee, my … friend,’ she said, ‘for she … is almost … upon us … and will destroy us.’

‘Hey, who’s this “she” everyone keeps talking about?’ Frank said.

‘Glinda.’

‘The Good Witch of the South? I thought she was friendly.’

‘Which … fantasy world … have you been … living in? She’s no longer … Glinda … the Good Witch of the South. No, she’s … she’s … Glinda Gone Rogue! She’s turned to … the dark side. She’s green … she’s mean … and she’s obscene. All because she’s … she’s … perimenopausal!’

From within the dense jungle foliage, a haggard voice cried out, ‘I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!’ A blood-curdling, spine-tingling, goosebump-raising cackle followed.

‘Quick! … we must flee. Trust me … Hell hath no fury like … a woman perimenopausal.’

‘I’m staying,’ Frank said as he stood taller and braver. ‘I fear no one.’

‘Suit yourself … but don’t say … I didn’t warn you. I’m off … home. There’s no place … like it.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘Wherever the wind … blows, these days.’

And the girl, carrying her yapping dog, dashed off.

Frank caught sight of her red shoes and shouted, ‘You’ll get there a whole lot quicker if you tap together the heels of those ruby slippers you’re wearing.’

But she and the dog disappeared into the jungle green.

So that’s what they were all afraid of, the cowards, Frank thought. A wholesome witch turned wicked. ‘Well, you lot of scaredy-pants, I will not follow you into the jungle,’ he said, puffing out his chest. ‘I will not flee in fear. For I am Braveheart, King of the Jungle, and no wicked witch, no matter how moody, hot-flushed or sleep-deprived she is, will scare me.’

The wind increased in its roar and rage. The foliage swayed and bent and flattened. And tree trunks creaked and groaned, then snapped and boomed as they crashed to the jungle floor.

With a piercing ‘eeeheheehe’, Glinda Gone Rogue burst from the jungle on her broomstick, and leaning forward, she shot forward towards Frank. As she neared, he saw her bulging blood-red eyes, her haggard yellow teeth, her warty green nose and her daggered black nails, and he did what any sensible, like-minded feline would do. He went yellow—a spineless, scaredy-pants, I-want-my-Mummy yellow—and rolled over onto his back, drew his front paws up under his quivering chin and submitted, purring like a petrified pussy.

‘Aha!’ Glinda screeched, hovering on her broom above Frank. ‘I’ve got you now, my not-so-pretty! Eeeheheehe! Eeeheheehe!’

He glanced at the run-down clock. 1:00. One minute. All he needed to do was survive sixty seconds. But what to do? How could he delay a feral witch hellbent on his destruction?

‘I say, Glinda of the South,’ Frank said, ‘have you tried avoiding hot beverages and spicy foods?’

‘Nothing you say or do can stop me destroying you, my not-so-pretty! And for your information, I now live nor’-nor’-west.’

0:51.

‘Have you thought about adopting a deep breathing routine or dressing in layers?’

‘Quiet, you cowardly cat! You’ll be cat food quicker than I can say Ozzy Ozzy Oz. Eeeheheehe! Eeeheheehe!’ And she lowered her broom to the ground and stepped off.

0:42. Think, you fool, think! Frank urged himself.

‘I hear those low-dose oestrogen patches work wonders.’

Glinda of the Nor’-nor’-west drew a gnarly wand from beneath her black cape.

0:34.

‘Or, if all else fails, try popping a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor for those mood swings of yours.’

Glinda Gone Rogue raised the tip of her wand, and as she whispered incantations, green sparks spewed forth from the tip and fizzed about in the air. She flicked her wand, and the sparks turned red and merged into one and shot over and hovered menacingly above Frank’s head.

‘Oh God!’ he said, ‘I’m going to die! I don’t want to die.’

And with 15 seconds left to live and an excruciating death staring him in the face, he, Frank Hockley, sole proprietor of Hockley’s Pawn Shop, aka Braveheart, aka The King of the Jungle, aka Master of his Domain, did what any pusillanimous lion would do. He peed himself. The yellow stream jetted upwards and arched outwards, only to land upon an unsuspecting Glinda Gone Rogue.

‘You cursed cat!’ she screeched. ‘Look what you’ve done!’ Her body started smoking and hissing and shrinking. ‘I’m melting! Melting! Oh, what a world! What a world! Who would have thought a cowardly lion like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?! Ohhh! Look out! Look out! I’m going! Oh—Ohhhh—Ohhhhhhhhhh!’

By the time Frank piss-shivered, all that remained of Glinda Gone Rogue was a dented witch’s hat, a ruffled cape and a rickety broom. An alarm rang, and a bright piercing light blinded Frank, and he tumbled forward and fell into an abyss.