Chapter Two:
Upon the birth of Parsnip the Magnificent, Woodrow further determined a thing or two, such as to move back into his own home and to teach the boy such things as a boy should know to become a man.
Parsnip was the Magnificent, Woodrow was the Cuckolded, and Rose was the Disgruntled.
“Woodrow, you moved me into your home and then ran away and stayed gone all this time. What do you expect me to do? I am not very gruntled with you just now!” she cried out as she flung a frying pan at him, as all women are wont to do during the coming of their labor pains.
Poor Woodrow had very little experience with women and did not see this for the reasonable action that it was and felt hurt to the core. Yet, even so, he determined, yet again, to teach the boy and raise him as his own son.
“How can he be your own son?” screamed Rose. “How? You weren’t there for the making of him or for the months of discomfort that ensued as a direct result.” A rolling pin was lobbed with discreet aplomb.
“I put a roof over your head as I will over his. I shall love you both and teach him everything he needs to know of my trade.”
“Everything you know?! How will that help him in the kitchen? He’s to be a salad chef not a fruttering …” Rose cried out, pushing hard enough to pop the baby out of her and directly into Woodrow’s arms.
“Not a salad chef,” he whispered a promise into the boy’s tiny ear “but a man! I shall teach you and raise you as my own.”
“Well, if that’s the way you feel about it then cut the cord and bring me my tea.”, demanded his wife, lovingly.
Later, where he sat knitting upon his throne and pondering his next move, Chaos was visited by three traveling salad chefs. All of whom, he noted, had been in his employ during the past and were all guilty of the same failures.
“I have no use for you.”
“Please, Sir, we have failed you and wish to make atonement.”
“Surely there should be a guard or some such to keep the riff raff out?”
“I’m afraid we have beaten your guard senseless with our salad tongs, Sir, so that we might have a word with you.”
“ A word? You’ve had several. Will you be beating other servants of mine to pay for each one separately?”
“Err…” they answered in unison.
“What is it you want? Can’t you see I’m knitting?”
“Yes, Sir, so we shall be brief, “ replied the eldest salad chef.
“Briefs.”
“Sir?”
“There are three of you so you cannot be brief as you must be pluralized and that makes you briefs.”
“ I don’t believe ..”
“You never did believe in much, including me or how to make a decent Roquefort dressing, then, did you?”
“My Roquefort dressing is lauded as beyond compare, Sir!”
“So would be a pie made of cow chips and yet I doubt that means most would care to partake.”
“Sir, we wish to make atonement for the faults in our service by seeking out this child born of your fl.. your child, anyway, and teaching him all we know of salad making as a base on which to build.”
”But not how to make Roquefort dressing, I trust?”
“As you wish, Sir.”
“Oh, then it’s off with your heads.”
“Sir?!”
“You said as I wish.”
”Yes Sir but I meant.. “
“Oh dear! Have you become the sort of fellow who goes about meaning things? Tsk tsk!”
“How can we teach the child if we have no heads?”
“I sincerely doubt it will affect your performance in the slightest. After all, if you had been using your head for thinking out or reading a good dressing recipe, you’d still be in my employ.”
“That isn’t even why you fired me; no, nor my companions here either. It was …”
“Besides, I never much liked your head. It’s always prattling and kow-towing to me.”
“But you are our King and our god. Of course we would. ..”
“I think I shall beat you with your own salad tongs. I hear they are great for that. Did you know?”
“Yes Sir, for we told you..”
In a flash, Chaos was off his throne and amidst them, giggling menacingly yet with a boyish flair.
”Here we go!” he cried in joy, snatching the nearest salad tongs away from the helpless man.
“How will you find my son?” he queried as he pinched the buttocks of the nearest visitor.
“Where was he born?” was the further inquiry as he clouted another atop his noggin.
“In Piccolo Rancido” they cried out in almost perfect unison; one man lagging behind due to the jab he was receiving in the eye as he replied.
“Where?” Chaos demanded, tickling someone’s abdomen in a violent manner.
“Please Sir, “ screamed the guard. “I am only trying to protect you! Stop tickling me!”
“Where did you come from?” Chaos demanded of his guard.
“From my mother’s womb, Sir.” , answered the guard quite smartly
“Not you!”
“Sorry Sir.”
“These three salad chefs have traveled afar, bearing gifts it looks like. Why?”
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| The Sacred Beggar Boy Chapter 2: Salad Tossers pt 1 |
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