Fable

9 October 2013

The Do It All Liquid

O.L. Antley

There once was an Aardvark that lived down by the river. Now, by this river where he lived he sold gasoline, the finest gasoline in town. Everybody wanted a bucket of it because it was so cheap! It was a nickel a bucket and the Aardvark advertised it hard as the, “do it all liquid”. Now, the Aardvark was living very comfortably in his river side cabin, he had a bag full of nickels, the richest animal in the forest. Jealous squirrels would feverishly try to steal from him, but the Aardvark hired a barred owl to guard for a penny an hour. The squirrel population had fallen from 897 to 883.

While all of this was happening, one animal kept it’s whit and didn’t fall victim to the Aardvark’s tricky sales maneuvers. Rainbow trout was a member of the river neighborhood and saw the foolish beavers and muskrats and such buy buckets of gasoline by the minute, and Aardvark just sat there with his big grin, flicking nickels into the air. Rainbow Trout had done his research, he knew the true capabilities of the, “do it all liquid.” With the upcoming fireworks festival he knew that something terrible would happen. He would yell, “Don’t you know how dangerous that stuff is?” and they would respond with, “We can’t hear you, you’re under water.” The fish would steam and swim off trying as hard as he could to spread the word about gasoline. Nobody listened, they were all entranced by the smell of it. Some went as far as drinking it, bathing with it, cooking with it. That’s when fires became an everyday thing, but the animals didn’t know the gasoline was causing the problem, so they went on using it.

Now, with all of these fires the animals began to use a plethora of water to put them out. The river had fallen ten feet and the Rainbow Trout was forced to live in a literal puddle, still pleading with every passer-byer. 

“We can’t hear you, you’re under water!” The fish would cry as he looked at Aardvark’s new mansion overlooking the emptying river, Aardvark was sitting on the front porch, smirking, flipping his nickel. It was time for the fireworks festival. 

As the Rainbow Trout had predicted, something went very wrong. The first rocket went up and bursted in a flash of brilliant color, sending wispy sparks all directions. Out of 700 sparks 321 of them landed within buckets of gasoline, and instantly the peaceful forest community went up in flames. Fires were something that these animals were used to but this was  a raging inferno. Aardvark was rifling through the fire station looking for any water to use against the burning hell terrorizing the town. There was no water besides Rainbow Trout’s tiny puddle. 

“Dammit Just! Just use the gasoline!” Aardvark shouted. All of the animals instinctually listened and grabbed their buckets of gasoline, “On my mark we put this fire out!”

The Aardvark gave the mark and the forest literally exploded in a fiery death ball the likes of which had never been seen nor remembered by anybody but the Rainbow Trout. Who was gingerly swimming in his puddle. He lived through the madness, knowing in his heart that he was in-fact right. He was sad for his animal brethren that had lost their lives, but just knowing that he was right was good enough for him. And it was at this moment that he remembered the wise words his grandfather told him too long ago,

“If everything above the water is insane,

then you might want to look under it.”

A Night In Chicago

Ricardo’s Tiger Fun Fair Circus was in town doing street performances. We walked along the sidewalk and saw three massive bengal tigers on the side of the road. A jumpy looking man with a formidable mustache was whipping at the beasts and shouting french commands at them. The cats moaned and hollered in annoyed fury, but their thick chains held them steady, trapped in a wallless prison. We stood and marveled at the tigers along with several other people, forming a half circle around the whipper’s area. He was feeding off of the audience, lifting his top hat to them after every amazing stunt. 

The white bengal was balancing on a ball while the orange one jumped through a hoop of fire over and over. The lowly third tiger sat in the back, mechanically stepping on an accordion like device imitating a ghostly tune that rattled through the streets of Chicago. Each ferocious beast, a shell of their former self. Once proud massive jungle cats, now embarrassed, malnourished, trick toy cats. They were not performers, they were killers, and very good ones indeed. Their razor sharp incisors were chomping at the bit to sink into the skin of a living target. The tigers were going mad. I began to see it in their eyes, in the eyes of the whipper as well. He looked like he knew what was about to happen, like after all of his years dealing with these animals he knew that today would be the day when they broke. Took matters into their own circumstances. Rebelled. 

I was surely uneasy now, watching the old white tiger stare us down atop that ball. He was snarling at us, smiling showing off his dental knives. His cool yellow eyes beamed onto my date, I knew that he had been watched by the tigers from the moment we stepped onto that street. It was destiny. The tigers had been waiting for him sense they were cubs, he had been waiting for them sense he was a babe. The white bengal thoroughly thought over the situation, and like the shot of a gun the chain snapped, the ball popped, the whipper whipped. But nothing could be done, it was a furious hit. Rocking the poor man back to the ground, where the tiger, delighted, slashed his face intensely. With expert precession the tiger swiped, my date screamed and I ran. I never knew till this day that he had survived, I will never know how. I left the man to die and he resurrected, you can’t ask a man like that any questions.

The Telephone Call

Santa Claus was on the other end of the line, “Hey Santa Claus here, on’t get too overwhelmed.” Typically a person would have trouble believing something so absurd but the sound of slay bells flung from the phone, something amazingly magical captured my heart.

“Yes Santa, your wish is my command,” I said like I had been waiting for it my entire life. He went on to tell me about his busted slay and that I was the, “Chosen One,” half elf blood, half human blood. A combination that Santa thought only he had. 

“With this combination you have the power of Christmas Magic and eternal life, you are the chosen one,” Santa sounded very excited on the phone, “You’re the only one who can help me fix my slay, with our Christmas Spirit combined we can solve this problem and deliver presents to every child in the world.”

A proclamation I couldn’t deny, “Santa, I will follow you into the pits of Hell and back, to the Gates of Oblivion and back, to the Fires of Mordor and back, I will follow you.”

“That’s just what I like to hear, now get your gear on.”

I threw on my winter coat and heard a pounding on the door. Oh my, I thought, this certainly must be Santa. I was thrilled to open the door and see his legendary face, a face that is instantly recognizable with any child in America. What do you say to such an icon? It is a problem that many people face, when you truly meet your hero what is there to possibly say? They have heard it all for sure, the nervousness was building up within me. I couldn’t wait to see his cherry cheeks, that big ol’ cookie belly, to hear that trademark laugh.

I opened the door and looked eye level ahead of me. No big jolly man standing there, no unit of reindeer in ready position in-front of the house, not even the sound of slay bells, just the dull cold biting at my nose. This is when I looked down to see a small boy wrapped up in a scarf, a phone in hand still opened, “Hahaha he fell for it! Everybody look! This guy believes in Santa!”