martinsmithstories

Image: “Rumpelstiltskin”, by Henry Justice Ford, from Andrew Lang’s Fairy Tales

‘Hello. My name is Andy, and I’m an antagonist.’

‘Hi, Andy.’

‘I … I …’

‘Take your time, Andy. We’re all listening.’

‘Well, I’m Andy Rumpel—’

‘No last names, Andy.’

‘Sorry. Look, you’ve probably heard of me. Last year, there was a child custody dispute at the palace, and the press splashed my name all over its media. They painted me in a nefarious light and accused me of being a villain with anger management issues. Sure, it all started with a bit of name-calling, but deep down I felt the queen had duped me out of that to which I laid claim—after all, she made a promise, and I was the one who did her dirty work while she sat there those three long nights, twiddling her thumbs and dreaming about her royal wedding. For nearly two years, after I helped her out of her tight squeeze and she promised me her first-born child, I waited with restless impatience for the child’s first birthday, when I could claim what was rightfully mine. For nearly two years, I watched an unctuous press goo and ga over the royal family and their happy-ever-after. All those pathetic waves from the royal balcony, all those faux charity do’s hiding their tax dodging, all those narcissistic public holidays on their birthdays and all those happy vacation snaps, kilted at their summer castle or ski-suited on the slopes outside their winter chalet. And all that time, amidst all their profligacy, not once did I sight the child. Not once.

‘When the big day arrived, I rocked up to the palace and stood before the king and queen and reminded her of her promise. And that’s when she laid it on thick. At first, she gawped like a dumbstruck goldfish. Then she stammered on about me being a liar. Me? A liar? I held out my gnarled, dirty, calloused hands in front of the king and asked him to compare them with the queen’s soft, pale, manicured hands and contended that she hadn’t done a night of spinning straw into gold in her life.

‘The king said to the queen, “He has a point.”

‘But she flushed and refuted my claim.

‘The king suggested a coin toss to decide the child’s fate. He patted his pockets and grimaced and said, “This is embarrassing. I seemed to be short of a quid. Well, a gold coin anyway.” And he cursed being coinless. He looked about the court and asked his courtiers if any of them had a coin. He said, “My kingdom for a gold coin.” And the courtiers patted their pockets and checked their purses and, unsuccessful, averted the king’s gaze. The king said, “What, not even a brass razoo?” The king’s exchequer gave a polite cough and reminded the king that it was the day before court payday. Again, the king cursed.

‘I pulled a handful of straw from my pocket, held it out and suggested the queen might aid his dilemma by spinning a gold coin. He turned to her in hope, but she blushed and said she could only spin at night.

‘I snorted and said, “Yeah, sure.”

‘The king cursed yet again, then said, “Surely amongst us there is something we can toss.”

‘A deep voice said, “I will come to my king’s aid.”

‘The crowd of courtiers parted, and a courtier of short stature stepped forward and stood before his king.

‘The king said to the courtier, “Much obliged.” He picked the courtier up and turned to me and said, “Heads or tails?”

‘I said, “Tails.” The king tossed the courtier of short stature, who spun through the air and, with an enormous crack, landed on his head. The king said, “Tails it is.”

‘I released a quick fist pump and stepped forward to claim the child.

‘But the queen whimpered and between sniffles asked how he, the king, could surrender their child to a rapscallion of an imp like me.

‘The king said to me, “She has a point.”

‘But I flushed and refuted her claim.

‘Growing impatient, I suggested to the king a guessing game to resolve the dispute. I said to him, “I will forfeit my prize if the queen can guess my name and pronounce it correctly.”

‘The king said, “Sounds fair to me.”

‘The queen blanched.

‘Gotcha! I thought. I said, “And here is a list of four names to make it easier for her.”

‘The king accepted my list and handed it to the queen and said, “Well, my dear?”

‘The queen’s eyes filled with panic and she froze.

‘The king said, “What is the imp’s name, my dear?”

‘Still the queen froze.

‘I said, “Stop stalling, your Majesty.” I could see the queen had no idea. The child was mine!

‘The king raised a hand to hush me and said to his wife, “Would you like a lifeline, my dear?”

‘The queen nodded.

‘The king said, “A fifty-fifty?”

‘The queen nodded again.

‘The king handed me the list and asked me to cross out two names. I obliged and struck out Tom Tit Tot and Whuppity Stoorie. I handed the list to the queen, who read it, but panic still filled her eyes.

‘The king said, “Do you have a name, my dear?”

‘The queen shook her head.

‘The king said, “Can I grant you another lifeline, my dear? Would you like to ask the king’s audience?”

‘The queen nodded her head.

‘The king said to his courtiers, “Do any of you know this imp’s name? Come, raise your hand if you do.”

‘Ha! I thought. As if anyone, let alone those courtly fools, knew my name.

‘Feet shuffled and throats cleared and eyes watered and looked down, but not a single hand rose.

‘The king said, “Surely one of you must know this imp’s name. Sir Rodger? Sir Roderick? Lady Bryan?” Still hands remained at the courtiers’ sides until the king said, “Well, my dear, it appears that you are out of luck. You’ve only one lifeline left. Would you like to phone a friend?”

‘To my shock, the queen’s face lit up and she said, “Yes. I’d like to call Maleen, please.”

‘I thought, who the hell is Maleen?

‘The king dialled a phone and set it on speaker as it rang. He then said to the queen, “Tell me, my dear, who’s Maleen?”

‘The queen said, “My maid.”

‘I thought, the maid? What would she know?

‘A voice on the phone answered, “Maleen speaking.”

‘The king said, “Maleen, you are live before a king’s audience.”

‘Maleen said, “I am?”

‘The king said, “Yes, and the queen has a question she wishes to ask you.”

‘And Maleen said, “OK. I’m listening.”

‘The queen leant towards the phone and said, “Maleen, it’s me, the queen. No time to gossip. I only have thirty seconds. What’s the name of that imp you saw dancing last night? The one who shouted out his name while you hid in the bushes. You told me, but it’s slipped my mind.”

‘I blanched. Did the queen’s confidante know my name? I cursed my anticipatory celebration the previous night and the meadow mead I’d drunk to excess whilst singing and dancing around my campfire. How was I to know my homebrew would go straight to my frontal lobe and I’d blab out my name to the world and, unbeknown to me, the queen’s maid as she serendipitously hid in the scrub and watched my merriment?

‘Maleen giggled and said, “Oh, that’s easy, your majesty. It’s R—” And she said my name. My name! Now known by one and all and the queen.

‘The queen thanked Maleen and turned to the king and beamed a winner’s smile.

‘The king said, “Is that your final answer, my dear?”

‘The queen nodded.

‘I held my breath.

‘The king said, “Lock it in, my dear?”

‘The queen nodded.

‘My pulse raced.

‘The king said, “So, my queen, to win the right to keep our child, please tell me, with the correct pronunciation, the name of the imp before you?”

‘I clenched my fists. No, surely not, I thought. Not now. Not when I had the child in my grasp.

‘And the queen smiled and said, “Wumpelstiltskin.”

‘I released a laugh and said, “Dur! Wrong answer. Nice try, gorgeous, but no last brownie for you. The correct answer is R—.” I said my name and then spelt it out.

‘The queen said, “That’s wight. Wumpelstiltskin.”

‘I said, “No, sweetheart, it’s pronounced with a leading R, not a W.”

‘The queen turned to the king and said, “But that’s what I said. Wumpelstiltskin. Wum-pel-stilt-skin.” And she burst into tears.

‘The king tried to calm the queen, but when he suggested I’d won and a promise was a promise, well, the floodgates really opened. And that’s when she said it. The “A” word. She raised herself up on her heels and stood tall, and with an extended arm and a pointed finger, she called me an antagonist.

‘The king said, “That is the point.” And the weak bastard sided with his wife and declared the matter resolved.

‘I said, “That’s bullshit!”

‘The king rose and said, “Silence! Or I will have you imprisoned.”

‘I tell you, I was pissed. Really pissed. I released a mouthful or ten of expletives, and in a rage I drove my right foot so far into the ground that it sank to my waist. Then in a passion I seized my left foot with my hands and tore myself in two. Look, I think I deserved to express my frustration with a hearty stomp, but to be truthful, I didn’t see the split coming. You hear people complain about the pain of an anal fissure. Want to know about pain? Real pain? Try splitting yourself in half. And with the pain came acute embarrassment. What people don’t know is my better half and I spent three days and three nights stuck in the palace floor. It took the Jaws of Life—and a whole lot of hand placement upon parts of our half-bodies that made us feel mighty uncomfortable—to pry us loose, and then we had to gather ourselves together to exit with what little dignity we had left.

‘The two of us scuttled back to Woodland, our home in the forest, where we had a hell of a time putting ourselves back together. First, we tried duct tape, then staples, and then superglue. But that was a disaster as we got high on the fumes and ended up with our half-arses stuck together. Once the acetone worked its wonders, we tried Velcro, but we wasted an entire day having fun ripping each other apart. We ended up going with an industrial-strength coil zip, and we became I.

‘Next day, I received a letter with the royal seal. I ripped it open, thinking there’d been a change of heart at the palace and shared custody agreed to, but—blow me down—the bastards had sent me a bill for twenty pieces of gold for repairs to the palace floor. I went to stomp my foot, but caution got the better of me, so I took a calming breath, shoved a handful of straw in the self-addressed stamped envelope provided and wrote: Spin your own shit, arseholes!

‘Then the palace upped the PR. The next thing I knew, I was Public Bad Guy Number One. The media fed the masses all this bullshit the Palace simply made up, and they, the insatiable hordes, lapped it up. But not once did the press come and ask me how I felt about the whole debacle, about how I was coping, about how I was trying to put the pieces back together again. But that’s the problem with being an antagonist. All we get in the end is oblivion. No one ever wants to hear about our sad-ever-afters. We’re just thrown on the scrap heap until the next generation comes along to boo and hiss at us, all because they’re brainwashed into thinking antagonists are unworthy of empathy. And boy, do those snowflakes, those protagonists, play the victim card for all its worth. And you know what? It gives me the utter shits. Ever noticed how protagonists are always beautiful or ruggedly handsome, and how they always end up filthy rich or marrying into royal blood or preaching some smug moral espousing some hoity-toity platitude themed along the lines that “all antagonists are bastards (or bitches)!”. You never see us antagonists get kissed, hoping we metamorphose from amphibian to Adonis (or Aphrodite). Nope, we’re just wish fulfilment facilitators, aiding and abetting the fairy-tale ending but never getting our hands on the ultimate prize. And God help you if you’re a step-relative. Be you stepmother or stepsister, you’re doomed to archetypal agony. And where are all the short, pale and ugly Prince Repulsives? Sure, the occasional subversive gets to give a protagonist their comeuppance; you know, shed a little protagonist blood or banish them back to their former miserable lives, but, hey, no one’s a winner in the end. Besides, who the hell wants a sad ending? Lives are sad enough without having to read about the demise of someone who’s had a whole heap of emotional empathy stacked upon them along the journey.

‘I spent the next month in bed. And I tell you, those were dark times. Black times. I became obsessive-compulsive and lay there for hours and played with my zip. I’d start with a full unzip, then a half zip, then a quarter unzip, then a one-eighth zip, then a one-sixteenth unzip, and finish with a final, flourishing twenty-two thirty-seconds of a zip that would leave me back where I started. Then I’d start all over again. Same sequence, same result. And amidst this zipperthon, I, on more than one occasion, thought about ending it all. But just when I’d convinced myself to do the dirty deed, a voice deep within my psyche whispered, “Don’t. Don’t do it. You don’t want to die as an antagonist. Seek help and rid yourself of this stigma.”

‘And help I sought.