Once upon a time, far, far away, there was an enchanted land where the animals could talk. You can’t get there from here without major pharmaceuticals, so don’t even try. OK? You’re just kids after all, sheesh.
In this magic land there was a beautiful Garden. The Garden had everything: fruit trees, vegetable beds, berry bushes, melon vines, flowers, trees, shrubs, rotten logs with mushrooms, everything. The Great Garden was tended by the denizens of the land. That’s a good word, “denizens”. It should be used more. Try to work it into your everyday conversations. “Denizens”. The denizens of the land took great pride in their Garden. Everyone worked together to make it the Best Possible Garden. Side by side toiled bears, owls, weasels, wolves, mice, pigs and a bunch of other animals. There were even sea creatures. Like squids and blowfish. They lived in the ponds and lakes around the Garden. When there was a big to-do, they would come in giant fishbowls, carried by their friends who could walk on land. There were many animals in the magic land. That could all talk. This was a magic land, after all.
One terrible day, the denizens of the magic land found their Garden under attack. Some horrible person, or persons, unknown broke into the Garden and caused much mischief. They kicked apart the compost pile, pushed over the little signs that told what vegetable was growing where, tore down the decorative little fences around the flower beds, and peed on the mailbox. They were bad people indeed. Or bad talking animals, but it comes to the same thing.
What would the good denizens do? See, “denizens” is a good word. I’ve used it seven times so far, and I’m still not tired of it.
Fortuitously, the good people had a Protector of the Great Garden. The stout wallaby, Jerry. “A wallaby? Jeez, man, couldn’t Jerry be something more… I don’t know… macho than a stinking wallaby? You might have just as well made him a duck.” You cry in disbelief. Don’t get your shorts in a knot. Jerry was no ordinary wallaby. He had the heart of a lion, the wisdom of an owl, the memory of an elephant, and the sharp claws and fangs of a mountain lion. This was a wallaby you didn’t want to mess with. Jerry also had the genitalia of the blue whale, but he didn’t like to brag. Jerry was one modest wallaby.
Jerry (the wallaby), rolled up his sleeves and got to work. He changed all the locks and got to fixing the Garden. The repair job was daunting, but Jerry was up to the task. He worked long and hard and did a terrific job. The downside to the fixing up of the Garden was some of the work was lost. The lovely little windmill out by the pond, the gravel path through the lime orchard, the birdhouses painted bright colors, all lost. Not that I’m bitter or anything. Really. Go ahead and lick me. See? I’m not bitter. (I know I’ve used that “lick me” gag recently, but I like It. It makes me laugh. I’d use it as my sig, but I don’t use a sig anymore. I’d like to think it’s because a sig uses up valuable resources, but really it’s because I forget to check the “Show Signature” box when I post. But I tell people it’s because of the resource thingy. It makes me sound like a better person.)
There was much rejoicing in the Garden. “Huzzah for Jerry!” the cry went up. “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”
Jerry was greatly laid that eve. Yea verily, the chicks all dig Jerry. And he had much beer bought for him. And other favors, but we won’t get into that. It would be prying.
A Hunter went out to all the lands, searching for the defiler of the Great Garden. When he was found, he was brought back to the denizens for punishment. He was a rat. Not that all rats are bad, but this one was. Rats are blamed for the Black Death, but this was not their fault. Black Death was spread by fleas. The rats were unwitting dupes. Although if you get a rat in the granary, it can be bad. Like tribbles, only in real life. They make good pets though. They are pretty smart. You can teach them to run mazes. They do have the awful rodent habit of pooping all over the place. And they smell kind of funny. But they do make a good pet. Better than gerbils, anyway. This particular rat was of uncertain parentage. A Rat-Bastard. No beating around the bush, he was a Rat-Bastard to mess with the Garden.
The first Punishment was to drive a spike through his lower leg, you know, between the two bones, radius and ulna? Or is that the arm? Then fibula and tibia. Whatever. The rat was going to get a spike through his leg and be chained to a lemon tree. Or just staked into the ground. A catapult was to be built a little ways away, and every morning the denizens would empty their chamber pots into the catapult’s hopper. The “night soil” would then rain down upon the rat. That would be so cool.
The second Punishment was to pour gasoline down his pants and super-glue broken glass to his hands. The denizens would take turns flicking lit matches at him. When his pants caught fire, he’d have to beat the flames out with the broken glass.
The third Punishment was to send the Rat-Bastard to jail. Since he was a pencil-necked geek with poor people skills, he’d undoubtedly become the cell block bitch.
The denizens went with Punishment #3.
So sleep well children. The Garden is right and well. Thanks to a clever wallaby named Jerry.
-Uncle Rue, story guy.
