A Farewell to Clothes

One day around the turn of the [21^st] century I wondered, “What if [famous author] had written [fairy tale]?” I wrote several and took a few to my writer’s group, where they were well received.

I came across them while de-cluttering my hard drive and wondered if I’d still be happy with them. If anything, I’d see how I have developed as a writer. (if I have.) Maybe I’d learn something. Maybe someone else would be able to use them to help their own writing. Worst case scenario, they could keep the blog going while I work on a larger and longer scale project for this space.

 

Over the next few months I’ll release a story every week or two. Today’s story follows.

 

 

A FAREWELL TO CLOTHES

(With apologies to Ernest Hemingway)

The emperor was a vain man who always made a show of his clothing. This made him a foolish man and a weak man. Strong and wise men do not give in to such conceit.

The emperor’s vanity was so great that he would not wear the same clothes twice. His clothes were not cheap. His clothes were well made and they were expensive. Damn fine clothes they were. But not good enough for him to wear twice. Not for the emperor.

When the emperor held court he regaled his visitors with stories of his youth. These stories always involved his clothing. How much better he had looked than this prince. How much more expensive his clothes had been than those of that duke. Which famous tailor had made his suit for this princess’ wedding.

He never spoke of women or of sport. He never engaged in contests of skill or stamina. He was weak in these areas and he knew it. He busied himself in the arena of clothing and its design. This was a woman’s arena and it made him a weak emperor. It made him subject to the errors of judgment those who do not exercise their manhood are prone to. The errors of judgment that would undo him.

It came to pass after many years that some confidence men heard of the emperor’s conceits in the area of attire. These were not scrupulous men. They were not men of conscience. They sorrowed for their actions no more than a dog feels remorse over eating the warm flesh of a still-breathing deer. In the emperor they saw wealth. Their wealth, there for the taking.

These men, named Jack and Nick, invested wisely. They invested in clothing. The clothing they invested in was calculated to impress even the emperor. The clothing was purchased from a land far away. It was a land where the emperor would have no knowledge of the tailor they used. This would be important. They would have to be able to pass the clothing off as their own.

Jack and Nick appeared at court one day. They knew the emperor would notice their finery. They did not approach him directly. They allowed themselves to be seen. They were seen by those who had the emperor’s ear. These people would speak to the emperor. The emperor would come.

A few days later an emissary of the emperor did come. The emperor wished to know where they had purchased their garments.

“We purchase no garments,” Nick said. “We wear only what we sew ourselves. No one else can meet our standards.”

“Would you be willing to meet our emperor and discuss this with him?” asked the emissary.

“Yes,” Nick said. “That is why we are here.”

When they met the emperor Jack did most of the talking. Jack was a good talker. He was a better talker than Nick. Jack could talk through any change in topic and any temper of conversation. Jack would do the talking.

The emperor was immediately impressed with their clothes. They did not wear the same clothes they had worn to court. The emperor would have recognized those. They had not the money to buy additional suits. They had bought a suit and a half each and were mixing combinations with each other. This made them appear to have more suits than they indeed had. The emperor was deceived, as he would be. He was a shallow man, barely a man at all. He had no stomach for manly things. It was like deceiving a child.

“These are fine clothes, very fine indeed,” the emperor said. He stroked the sleeve of Nick’s suit as he said it. The material felt smooth and comfortable to his hand. It was good material. There was none finer in the land.

“Yes, that is true, Your Majesty,” said Jack. “These are fine clothes. This is rich material. But the material we have for your garments is finer still.”

“Finer than this?” asked the emperor. “How can that be? I know of material, and I have felt none finer. This is damn fine material.” And it was, too.

“Yes, Your Majesty, it is true that you have felt none finer. None finer has been produced in any quantity. But we have a new process. By this process Nick and I can produce a material so fine it can only be felt by the most sensitive and discerning fingers. It will be so fine that it can only be seen by those of the utmost refinement and intellect. This material will set you apart from all others in your finery.”

The emperor, fop that he was, fell instantly under their spell. His reasoning had been dulled by years of sluggardly living during which he had not felt Death’s stale breath in his face even once. He was no match for the seductions of Jack’s enticements. He agreed instantly that Jack and Nick should have whatever they would need to create the material they had promised.

They would need a lot. They would need expensive and rare fibers. They would need hand-made equipment on which to spin these fibers. They would need to be left alone so that they could concentrate fully on their labors. And they would need money. They would need a great deal of money. They would need more money than anyone had ever conceived of paying for clothing of any kind. They justified the extreme amounts required by telling the emperor that they would work for no others while they toiled for him. They would make these garments exclusively for him.

The emperor was tricked by their seeming sincerity and devotion. He ordered that they receive everything they asked for. He decreed that they be given all the time they deemed necessary to complete their task. Then he went back to his routine of being half a man.

The two thieves deceived him as though tricking a small female child. They required more and more time. With each requested delay they told the emperor they were making the clothing more exquisite. He allowed this many times, believing in their promises of exquisite clothing. This insured his downfall as surely as if he had given them his permission to take as much of his money as they wished and return nothing to him for it.

He spoke often of the exquisite clothing he would soon wear. Wise men knew that he had been duped, or would soon be so. “Exquisite” is not a word for a man. It is a word, a good word, for a woman. A damn good word for a woman of some refinement. Not for a man. Certainly not for a man of power and never for a man who wishes to retain his power for long.

After many months Jack and Nick invited the emperor and his closest confidants to see what they had created. To see and to touch the beautiful garments that only those of supreme refinement and intellect and taste could see and touch. They were not disappointed in the response.

The emperor and his aides were speechless. They made various noises about the glorious clothing before them. They ran their fingers over material so soft and smooth that only the most sensitive of fingers could feel it. And they approved.

They approved of the clothing and its material because they were men of such refinement and intellect that they could not bring themselves to admit that they could not see or feel anything. This should not have been unexpected. Any man of any sense at all could have told them that there was nothing there. The looms had created ether. The hangers supported air. Any fool could see this.

But these men were not fools. They were the emperor and his most trusted associates. They could not see the truth, nor could they speak it even to themselves. To admit they could not see or feel this clothing would be to admit that they were not of the highest echelon of refinement. It would be to admit that they were common. It would be to admit that they had been duped. So they saw nothing, and admitted nothing by saying they saw all.

To celebrate the grand unveiling of the emperor’s new raiment, a grand parade was planned. Bands would play, maidens would dance, bulls would run in the streets. At the end of the parade the emperor would walk among his subjects, showing off the garments that only the best of them could see.

The parade was a grand success. Everyone in the realm turned out and no one could see the clothes. No one would admit to this. To admit to it would be admitting to being of a lower pedigree. In a land ruled by one such as this emperor, such issues were important. Appearances were what mattered. Drinks were something to be sipped under an umbrella, from a glass with an umbrella in it. There was no voice of reason to tell you to drink from the bottle. There was no one strong enough to fall asleep in the gutter while his own vomit dried on his chest hair before waking and starting over. It was that kind of weak place.

The parade had almost run its course when one spoke up. Not a man, still a child, but a masculine child not yet infected with the disease of propriety and sameness. This child was strong with the insight of youth. He was intolerant of falsity and façade. He was uncorrupted by position. He alone saw what all saw and could not admit. He could admit it and did. He shouted to all so that none could ignore him.

“Look,” he said bravely, with the courage of a youth whose self-image of immortality was still intact. “The emperor has no clothes!” And the emperor did not.

The ruse was over as soon as the boy’s shout rang through the square. Speaking the truth was the same as exposing the lie and this lie had seen adequate exposure already. All began to shout until even the emperor understood that he had been tricked into giving away large sums of money and walking naked through the streets.

The emperor spared no expense to have Jack and Nick found. They were tried and convicted and placed in the worst prison in the kingdom. Here they could make all of the clothing they wished. They could make it for the rats and cockroaches and other vermin that were their roommates and shared their food if they had not defecated into it first.

The emperor built many such prisons. In these prisons men could be punished as men deserved. Those who were strong enough were rehabilitated. Those whose weakness allowed them to be punished were punished. For those who had committed no crimes, he started a series of wars. In this manner they, too, could be tested to ensure their manhood would not be found wanting.

This was all done so his subjects would never again fall prey to weakness such as that to which he had succumbed. It was successful. All lived happily ever after. Those who did not live as long as they might have under the old regime shed their mortal remains honorably. Those who were injured, no matter how gravely, wore their scars, no matter how grotesque, proudly. They wore them as badges of honor, higher rewards than could be bestowed by any man arbitrarily. Their women honored them as they deserved to be honored, as warriors who would return with their shields or on them. The land thrived, all thanks to a small boy who would not be deceived.

  

The Catfather

(With apologies to Mario Puzo)


The old miller had not had much of a business, so when he died there was not much to divide among his three sons. The oldest got the mill itself, as was his birthright. The second son inherited the family donkey, as it was the only other thing the old man possessed of notable value. That left the youngest of the three with only the cat from the old man’s estate.

A few days later, after the funeral and disposition of the assets, the youngest son was sitting alone in his room with the cat. The cat was idly licking the back of one paw while the young man watched him with growing discomfort.

“What am I to do?” asked the young man of no one in particular. “I am not displeased with my lot, as my father had not much to give, but what shall I do with a cat as an inheritance? After I have eaten your meat and made a muff of your fur, what benefit will I be able to gain?”

The cat looked at the boy with his slit-like amber eyes and stopped licking its paw. It scratched the back of one paw under its jaw with a brief flicking motion, almost contemplative in an off-handed way.

“What have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?” asked the cat as it finished scratching. He spoke in a voice that, although having an edge, was as transparent as olive oil.

The miller’s youngest son was speechless, not so much because he had been spoken to by a cat as by what the cat had said. He watched the feline idly play with a small ball of string as it continued.

“Have you ever invited me to sit at your table like you would any other friend?” the cat said. “I have eaten your table scraps for many years now, but have you treated me as a friend? I see things, I understand. You had no need of a friend like me. That is fine. You had your human friends.”

“I didn’t want people to talk,” stammered the boy. “I didn’t know what they would say.”

The cat made a dismissive gesture with its paw. “That was your decision. I don’t begrudge you making your own choices about your friends. Let me tell you something, though.” The cat stopped playing with the string and looked directly at the boy. The vertical slits of its eyes narrowed with the intensity of the point it was about to make. “If you had been my friend, you would not now be in this situation. You would have everything you deserve, and other men would respect you, even fear you. You would not be thinking of eating me and making a muff of my remains.”

“I am sorry,” the boy said, abashed. “What can I do to make amends?”

The cat looked at him quietly, with an expression that said the boy already knew all he needed to know. Understanding the meaning of the cat’s silence, the boy did what was necessary.

“Be my friend,” he said quietly, “Catfather.”

The cat immediately got up and rubbed its back against the boy’s leg. “That’s good,” it purred. “Everything will be fine. You must do as I tell you to do now. Stay here in your home until I come for you. When I come, do as I say. Soon you will be a man of respect. I will take care of everything. All you need to do is to give me a sack, and some boots for my feet.”

“That I can do, but how will you do what you say?” asked the disbelieving boy.

“Your neighbors will be happy to give to you what should be yours,” replied the cat.

“My neighbors? They had little use for me when they needed my father to mill their grain. They will have no need of me at all now. How will you get them to do as you say?”

The cat looked at the boy. Without smiling, his face took on a placid character that spoke volumes. “I’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse.”

“I have no doubt that you can and will do all that you say,” said the boy. “I have no means of my own. How will I ever repay you?”

The cat looked at him benignly and scratched at its mouth again before speaking. “Some day, and that day may never come, I will call on you to do me a service. Until then, consider this a gift on the day of your inheritance.”

The next day the cat went to the palace of the king. In the sack the boy had given to him he carried three fine game fowl he had caught along the way. When he met the king, he presented him with the fowl as gifts from his master, Don Catleone. He continued this for several days, each day bearing more exotic game birds until the king requested to meet the great Don Catleone in person.

“Soon,” the cat said without coyness. “My master will come to you in good time.”

Later that week the cat learned that the king would be riding with his daughter in the royal carriage. The princess was renowned throughout the land for her beauty and grace and young noblemen from all corners of the realm had come forward to pledge their troth.

The cat instructed the boy to bathe in the river near the castle at the time the royal party would be passing by. He didn’t tell his young master of the schedule, or of his plan. There was no need to, and there is never any need to tell anyone else what you are thinking if there is no need for them to know.

The cat hid in the bushes near his master’s swimming place until the royal party was near. He carefully crept down to the bank and removed the youth’s humble clothes and hid them under a rock where they would not be seen. The cat then ran for the road, shouting at the top of his lungs that his master, Don Catleone, was drowning.

When the king heard that the drowning man was the same Don Catleone who had paid him so many courtesies of late he ordered his guards to save him immediately. The cat led them to the proper place in the river, where the lad did make an effort to thrash about to help to sell the cat’s story. When the guards dragged him out of the river at last, his clothing was nowhere to be found. The cat told the guards that as he was running in response to his master’s cries of dismay, he saw two men running away with the clothes. He did not go after them, as his master’s safety was his primary concern.

When the king heard of this, he instructed a fast rider to be dispatched to the castle to obtain suitable garments for his honored guest, the great Don Catleone. While the youth and his cat waited in the bushes for the clothes to be brought, the cat instructed the young man in what was to be done. Nodding silently, the youth assented to the cat’s plan. His trust has been well placed to this point and he saw no need to do other.

The clothes finally arrived and the lad was dressed. Attired in finery designed for the king, he looked every bit the young nobleman the king and the princess had expected. The king immediately requested that Don Catleone join him and his daughter for the rest of their ride. The youth looked toward his cat for advice. The cat only nodded and said softly, “You go with them. I have some work to do first. I will come to you later, when the time is right.”

As his master climbed into the royal coach, the cat took a shortcut through the forest until he came to two farmers working in a field. They were both large men, with skin and hands that bespoke of years of toil in the sun and on the land.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the cat said conversationally as he approached.

The two men paused in their labors to see what else a cat might have to say to them.

“Good afternoon, yourself,” said the larger of the two. His voice and attitude were of a man who would have little patience for any tomfoolery from a cat. “I see that you have time on your hands to roam the countryside and disturb good men in their work. What would you have so you can be off with yourself?”

The cat took no offense at the man’s rudeness. It was of no consequence and only served to display the man’s obvious ignorance of the situation in which he found himself.

“As you are clearly a busy man, I will get right to my business. I have no wish to waste your time.” The cat paused and pointed up the road back toward the palace. “In less than an hour’s time the royal coach will approach. The king will ask you whom this land belongs to. You will tell him that it belongs to my master, Don Catleone.”

“I will do no such thing!” said the farmer scornfully. “This is the land of the ogre who lives in yon castle. I’ll not attribute it to any other, as I have no desire to feel the wrath of the ogre. Now be gone with you before I call the dogs!”

The cat did not move. Instead, he weathered the farmer’s tirade with patience and sympathy. When the man had finished, he spoke quietly, much as he had to his master before.

“I take no offense. I understand that you speak from your heart and not from your head because you do not understand why I am here. I come here today to take nothing from you. I come here to ask you a small favor, a favor for which I will remain in your debt. You may find it better to have me in your debt than the other way around.”

“Is that a threat?” said the farmer as he began to approach the cat.

“I have made no threats to you today. Your friend can vouch for that,” the cat said, indicating the other farmer as he did so. That man had remained on the periphery of the conversation, uncertain as to where it would take him. “Life takes many turns. This one has brought us all to a point where we may be able to do each other a service.” He dropped his bag to the ground and gestured toward it with his head. “Take a look in the bag.”

The angry farmer opened the bag and looked quizzically into it. Finally he withdrew an old oaken bucket with a pair of farmer’s work overalls neatly folded inside.

“What’s this, a joke?” he fumed. “Why are Farmer Brown’s overalls in the old well bucket?”

The cat continued to look at him placidly. The other farmer’s reaction was much different. The color drained from his face as water runs through a sieve. He took a step backward from the cat and said to his friend in a small, airless voice, “Do what he says and do it now!”

“What’s wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?” the angry farmer demanded. “What’s the meaning of this?”

The cat said nothing, merely looked to the frightened farmer and smiled in his feline way. It was the farmer who spoke to his friend of the implications of what they had been shown.

“It’s an old cat custom. It means that Farmer Brown sleeps at the bottom of the well tonight.”

The angry farmer looked at his friend in shock, then turned his attention to the cat.

“That’s a nice big well,” the cat said in his smoothest and quietest voice. “Lots of room down there.”

After having reached an agreement with the farmers and receiving their assurances that they would pass the word to their neighbors in turn, the cat turned to the most important task of the day. Continuing down the path, he soon found himself in front of the castle of the great ogre. This ogre ruled the surrounding area with an iron hand and a flair for imaginative punishment. The cat requested entry.

The ogre was preparing for a great feast, which was being laid on as the cat rang for admittance. His festivities at hand, the ogre was in an expansive mood and welcomed a visit from the Catfather, as he had heard of him.

Since the great hall was being decorated for the feast, the ogre took the Catfather to a smaller, more private room. There they shared a drink and spoke of their respective interests. Finally it was time for the cat to take care of his business.

“I have heard from many respected sources that you have powers,” he said to the ogre. “It is said that you can change your shape into whatever you wish at any time. I am curious to see how this is done.”

The ogre smiled and before the cat could prepare himself changed instantly into a fierce lion. The Catfather was afraid at the closeness and apparent foul humor of the great beast, but did not betray his emotions, as your emotions are your enemy if you allow them to use you, but your friend if you can use them.

“Very impressive,” he said to the ogre-lion, sipping from his cup again. “I had no doubt that you could enlarge yourself. It would seem to me to be much more difficult to change your size to be smaller. I don’t see how you could do away with the extra mass.”

Just as quickly as he had changed into a lion, the ogre changed himself into a small field mouse. Even quicker than that was the cat’s motion as he snatched the mouse up in his jaws and ate it.

Having done the job on the ogre, the cat went to the great hall where the guests were already assembling. As soon as they understood that this was, indeed, the Catfather before them, they were easily persuaded to take their evening’s amusement elsewhere.

The Catfather reached the front of the castle just as the King’s coach arrived. His young master had done his job well. The King and his daughter were very taken with this enchanting and dashing young nobleman. That a man so young could accumulate such lands and a castle, and inspire the loyalty of such a diligent servant as this cat had greatly impressed the king. The princess was taken with the boy’s charming ways and handsome countenance. That a great feast had been so quickly prepared only served to seal their opinions of Don Catleone.

And so Don Catleone and the princess were married and lived happily ever after, their wealth and power assured for generations to come. As for the Catfather, he asked for nothing more than the proceeds from loan sharking and numbers, and the labor rackets as far as the western end of the docks.

Jacking the Beanstalk

(Or, "What if Mickey Spillane wrote fairy tales?")

Times were hard for the old man and me since Ma died. There was more work to do, or at least there was more work not getting done. My weekly visits to Trixie Hicks were the only fun to be had on the farm.

The old man didn’t help. He was no pleasure when Ma was around and started hitting the sauce even harder with her gone. It didn’t help his personality.

I didn’t want to come when he called that day to talk about the cow. He’d been on an all-night bender and was working on the hair of the dog cure for his hangover. By noon he had a snoot full.

“I got a job for you, boy,” he said. His breath reeked of stale beer and fresh bourbon. “Take the cow into town and see what you can get for her.”

“But Bessie’s all we got for milk, Pa,” I said, or started to say. I ducked in time for the empty bourbon bottle to sail over my shoulder. He wasn’t so drunk to throw the full one. He got up from the table when I wasn’t looking and gave me the back of his hand across my face. Not so hard that it hurt, but hard enough to snap my head back.

“It ain’t milk we need, boy! That beat up old football with legs don’t give enough milk to feed us! Now mind me and get yourself into town and see what you can get for her! I don’t got all day to wait on you. Do I look like a man that got all day for you?! Do I?!”

He looked like a man who had all day to crawl inside a bottle. I didn’t tell him that. I’d seen these moods and knew to stay away from him. He’d drink himself into a peaceful stupor soon enough, but he’d be one mean cuss on the way.

I went outside and got the rope on old Bessie. Town was a long walk on a hot day and I wasn’t half way before I started wondering what Trixie was up to, and if she’d be game for a little skinny-dipping. I was thinking a lot more about that than about selling the cow, or I would have noticed the guy before he stepped out from behind the tree and startled me.

“Hey, kid, how’s tricks?” he asked from the side of his mouth. He had a toothpick going in the other corner. How he managed to talk and keep that toothpick happy was quite a trick. “What’s your name?”

“Who wants to know?” I can hold my own in the witty repartee department.

“Hey, just a friend. I see you got a cow with you. Not a lot of folks taking their cows into town on a hot day like this. I was wondering what was up is all.”

“You got an eye for the obvious, pal,” I said, looking up and down the deserted road. “Maybe I’m taking her into town to see a movie. We’re farm people. We do things like that.”

“Nah, no movie for her. Not today, anyways,” the sharpie said. “You look like a boy with a mission. You got plans for that cow, don’t you, kid?”

He was getting on my nerves. “Yeah, you pegged it, Ace. I’m planning on winning the Derby with her. Now blow.”

He took the toothpick out of his mouth and moved in front of me on the path. “Look here, kid,” he said, pointing the pick at me for emphasis, “show a little respect. I’m about to do you a big favor and you don’t even appreciate it.”

“I don’t see no one here doing me no favors,” I said. “All I see is some slick in a cheap suit.”

“That’s because you got no vision, kid,” he said. “I know things about people. I know things about you.”

“Like for instance,” I said.

“Like for instance you’re taking that cow into town to sell her. What are you hoping to get for that broken-down old milker? A few shekels, maybe?”

I was ready to go. The line formed at Trixie’s pretty early on days like this. “You said something about a favor you were going to do me.” I tried to get past him.

“Take it easy, kid,” he said. He wasn’t rattled, but he was getting impatient. “You’re not going to get much for old Bossie—“

“Bessie.”

“Whatever, Bossie, Bessie, she’s two steps from being a porterhouse and we both know it. All you’re going to get is enough dough to buy three day’s hooch for your old man. I got a better deal than you’re going to get in town.”

“Better deal how? More dough?”

“Forget about dough, kid. Dough is for losers. You want to cash in quick, then go ahead. Be a loser your whole life. I got something better than dough here.”

Better than dough was something I had no familiarity with. “OK, I’ll jump. What’s better than dough?”

He looked up and down the road like he was afraid someone would see us. He got up real close to me and pulled something wrapped in a handkerchief from an inside pocket of his suit coat. He laid the handkerchief in the palm of his hand and opened it for me to see. “Here you go, kid. I got beans.”

“You got beans?” I didn’t raise my voice. It wouldn’t have been worth it. It was too hot, and he was nuts. I wanted to get to town, then see if Trixie was ready to go to town. “You keep them. I know what you can do with them, too.” I started walking again.

“Sure, you say that now,” he said, walking along with me, “but you don’t know about these beans. These ain’t ordinary beans, kid. These is magic beans.”

That stopped me. A chance for magic beans doesn’t come along every day. “Magic how?”

“Magic like in you put them in the ground and stuff happens.”

“I trade this cow for those beans and stuff’ll happen when I get home.”

“No, no, no, I mean good stuff,” he said, smiling. “I’m telling you straight. These beans is the real deal. You got to trust me.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why should you do me this big favor?”

He got a cagey look, like it was something he didn’t want to tell me. He finally decided he had to.

“I ain’t lived the best life, kid. I done some things that don’t put me on the Big Guy’s short list of companions, if you get my drift. One day I get a visit from this fairy godmother. She tells me that I only got a few chances left to do good, and she’s willing to help me. She gave me these beans and told me that they could make me rich beyond my wildest dreams, but to prove that I had really changed, that I would have to let someone else cash in on them.”

I couldn’t argue with a fairy godmother. If he really got the beans from her, then they were the real deal, and he must have got them from her, because who would make up a story like that? I did the math in my head and rolled over for him. I handed him Bessie’s rope and he gave me the beans.

“You won’t regret this, kid,” he said as he walked away with the cow.

I walked a few steps before it occurred to me. “Hey, wait a minute. If the fairy godmother wanted you to make sure someone else got these beans, why didn’t you just give them to me?”

He shook his head at me. “She said ‘do good,’ not ‘be a schmuck.’ Now go on home and plant your beans.”

Going home and telling the old man what I’d done was going to be a hard sell and I knew it. I had a better idea. I could do a little seed planting at Trixie’s first. The beans could wait.

The old man wore me out when I got home and told him what I’d done. He threw the beans out the window and hit me a few licks with his belt. He was reaching for the frying pan when he got tangled up in his suspenders and fell. I lammed and he got down to some serious drinking.

I slept late the next morning. The sun didn’t come in my window like it usually does. I looked outside and saw the biggest beanstalk I had ever seen growing up from where the old man had tossed the sharpie’s magic beans. I snuck through the kitchen. The old man was passed out dead to this world and the next and the floor was littered with his dead soldiers. I got around him and went outside.

The beanstalk had to be twenty feet around if it was a foot. I tried to see how high it had grown, but it went up into a cloud. It looked sturdy enough, so I started climbing.

I climbed all the way to the cloud. I could see a house in the distance. I’d never seen a house in a cloud before and it looked pretty solid up there, so I jumped off the beanstalk and started walking toward the house.

It was farther than I thought. The more I walked the bigger the joint got. Not mansion big, with lots of rooms, but giant big, with ceilings high enough to give a painter a nosebleed. I had a little trouble climbing the front stairs, but I managed. There was no way I could reach the doorknob, but there was a pet door right in front of me and I went through it. I hoped I wouldn’t come across Fido while I was there.

I like my women tall, but she was too much of a good thing. Ten feet tall and not an inch in the wrong place. She turned when I came in and I caught a look that told me she hadn’t seen the likes of me in a while. I get that look a lot. I bet she did, too.

Ten feet made her about four feet taller than me, and it gave me a view I didn’t usually get from a woman. Her legs were bigger than my arms, but they were perfectly proportioned to hold your attention for a while before you got too curious about what they were holding up. What they were holding up was worth waiting for. A nicely tapered waist led up to a major league rack, which hit me just about eye level. Long blond hair framed an oval shaped face and made the luster of her green eyes even more pronounced. I’d heard people talk of big, busty, blondes before, but this one got the blue ribbon.

“Hello, little man,” she said in a voice like forty weight oil on a cold day. “How did you get way up here?”

“Beanstalk,” I said as matter of factly as I could.

“Oh,” she said, like that explained everything. “Could you use any breakfast?”

“Sure. A few eggs would go good right about now. Scrambled, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. I like to scramble men’s eggs,” she said and shot me a look.

I walked over closer to the stove where she was already whipping up my breakfast. “You’re OK, Toots. I have a weakness for tall blondes who know their way around a kitchen. You live around here?”

She paused from stirring the eggs for a second. “You don’t waste any time, do you, Little Man? As a matter of fact, I live right here. I mean in this house, but I might as well say here in this kitchen. Why doesn’t some big hunk of a man take me away from all this?”

I was standing right beside her. “Normally, I would volunteer, but I think your definition of ‘big hunk of a man’ is different than mine,” I said. She turned and a breast brushed my cheek. “Do you like to slow dance?” I asked.

She laughed a full throaty laugh that made her toss back her head and move her hair around. “Yes, I do. I was wondering if you like to limbo?” she said with an evil grin, running her tongue across her lower lip a couple of times.

Before I could answer a small explosion shook the house. I felt the floorboards shaking as a voice that could have come from a loudspeaker bellowed:

“Fee, fie, fo, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make me bread.”

I thought about telling him that I was German-Irish, but the rattling going on from everything that wasn’t nailed down made me suspect that he wasn’t the debating type. The woman looked down at me with alarm and reached for the oven door.

“Quick! Get in here! That’s my husband, the giant. If he finds you here no one else will ever find you again!”

“In there? Get a grip, sister. I know the baked in a pie story, too, and I ain’t no blackbird.” I ran for the stove, but slid under it. I made it just as he came through the other door.

Calling him a giant was no exaggeration. Fourteen feet tall and built like a defensive lineman, the dust rose from the floor rose every time he set down a foot. “Woman,” he said in a voice that still rattled the china, “I needs me breakfast. Here,” he said, slinging a freshly killed heifer onto the cutting board, “I’ll be wantin’ some steak with me eggs this morning.”

She set right about it and whipped him up a side of beef and about two dozen eggs in no time flat. I looked around for a way to get out while he ate. Blondie hadn’t ratted me out yet, but depending on her didn’t seem like the smartest thing.

I mentally measured the distance from my hiding place to the door and had started mustering up some courage when I saw the chicken. It looked like an ordinary chicken, pretty large by my standards, but not by the morning’s standards. It walked in through the pet door and started scratching around the kitchen. Normally, I’d think that was strange for a chicken, but not today.

“There’s my pretty bird,” the giant said in what must have been as close to a tender voice as he ever got. He reached a grizzled paw and the chicken jumped into it. He gently raised his hand and put the bird on the table.

“Now, then, my birdie, do what I keeps you for,” he said and rubbed one finger under the hen’s breast.

The chicken ruffled her feathers a little bit, made a few clucking sounds and strained a little. Then she laid an egg. It was about the size of a regular jumbo egg, but it must have weighed four pounds. It was solid gold.

Now they had my attention. If I played my cards right, I wouldn’t have traded the cow for a handful of beans; I would have traded it for a hen that laid golden eggs. That was a good deal no matter how you looked at it.

I laid low until the giant finished his breakfast and went into the next room for a nap. I waited to be sure he was sleeping, and for the hen to get to a position somewhere between me and the front door before I made a grab for it.

When the time came I was out from under the stove and had the chicken under my arm faster than my namesake could jump over a candlestick. I expected the blonde to say something, but she never opened her mouth. It was the chicken that did me in.

I never thought of chickens as having owner loyalty, but I had never owned a chicken that laid golden eggs before. I didn’t go two steps when it started screaming its fool head off. I heard the giant stop snoring and stir, but I never looked back. I made the pet door before he did.

I felt his hand brush the back of my shirt when he dove for me. I ran down the sides of the steps just as I had come up, but the chicken slowed me down, flapping its wings and clucking to beat the band.

I was off the porch and onto the cloud before the giant cleared the door. I had to make it to the beanstalk before he did or I was a goner. I was about halfway there when I realized I’d never make it at the pace he was making up the ground. I started zigzagging, hoping that he was so mad he’d forget that my only escape was the beanstalk and just chase me, where my agility might be able to make up for his straight ahead speed.

He went for it. The more he chased me the madder he got. I got to the beanstalk ahead of him, and started down the opposite side as he reached for me and missed again. Now the size of the stalk was to my advantage. I carved out a few footholds on my way up and I made good speed on the way down. It was harder for him. It took him a while to get the hang of it. The beanstalk swayed like an antenna in a hurricane while he figured it out.

I made it the bottom just as he cleared the cloud. He was picking up speed as I ran to the tool shed and grabbed the chain saw, hoping it had some gas in it. He saw me and started to hurry. I got the saw started on the second pull and cut through the beanstalk in no time. The whole thing came down and the giant landed on his head with a sickening thud.

He didn’t move, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I ran into the house where the old man was still passed out and grabbed the .45 from the drawer. I ran back into the yard and pumped two rounds into the giant’s head, right between the horns, and saw brains and blood mingle with the watery sap from the beanstalk.

I sat down, exhausted. I must have passed out, because the next thing I remember the old man was shaking me awake. “Come on, boy, wake up, you look terrible. Come on in the house and have some soup. You’ll feel better.”

Seeing the beanstalk and the giant in the yard didn’t faze him a bit. God only knew what he saw when the DTs grabbed him. I dragged myself up and followed him into the kitchen.

The soup tasted great. The old man could cook when he was of a mind to, and he was usually hungry after a drunk. I was swiping a hunk of bread through the bottom of the bowl when it occurred to me that we didn’t have any chickens and I had just eaten chicken noodle soup.

“Where did you get the chicken?” I asked.

“I found it in the yard,” he said as pleasantly as he could. “I figured you must have brought it.”

No jury would have convicted me if I had killed him. I didn’t. I turned him in for ratting out Snow White to the Evil Queen, and Trixie Hicks and I lived happily ever after on the reward money.