Long ago and far away in a kingdom by the sea, there was a little island where the clouds were always fluffy and the sunshine was always pink and tasted just a little like lemonade. There was a lot of candy there. Enough for everyone. The people were all so happy that they laughed so much that no one ever went to sleep. It never rained, it never snowed, the worst thing there was a grumpy old toad.
The grumpy old toad was fat and squat, he had warts and he farted a lot. Since everyone there was too happy to sleep, they all told stories all the night long. The stories made the moon laugh. The grumpy old toad told stories from his youth, stories of his hurts, stories of his warts. He was neither the best nor the worst storyteller on the island.
The Island was bought by a Corporation called Streets of Gold Inc. This Corporation was also a church. The name of their god was Mammon. They got rid of the candy. Too much candy is bad for you.
The grumpy old toad was scared of Mammon. He had read a poet called Milton and Milton had said that Mammon was wiltin’. Mammon wanted you to go to sleep. Mammon wanted to turn you into a sheep. Sheep don’t sing, sheep don’t have strings, sheep don’t think. Sheep are not people. People think.
The toad was afraid of sheep. It awoke deep and unpleasant memories of his childhood in Wales. His stories took on a darker tone.
The Priests of Mammon asked the people on the Island to elect one of their own to speak for the rest. The people picked the most cute and sweet and accommodating person on the Island. He was fuzzy. He was wuzzy. He was cute and he was fluffy. His feet were clean and his cheeks were puffy. His name was Stin. The priests of Mammon gave him the Power to strike people dumb.
“Why have you given me this Power?” asked Stin.
“We don’t like Scarie People,” they said.
“How shall I know what’s Scarie?” he asked
“You’ll know. We trust your judgement,” they said.
Stin got up on the stage and explained how that since now he had the power to strike people dumb, people had to try not to be Scarie.
This made the grumpy old toad very angry. He hopped up to Stin.
“Aw, Stin,” he croaked. “How am I to know whether or not my stories are Scarie?”
“You’ll know. Use your judgement,” said fuzzy wuzzy fluffy puffy Stin.
“I don’t like it,” said the grumpy old toad. “It’s the first step down a slippery slope that leads to the rocky bottom of Fascism.”
“What’s Fascism?”
“Well, way back when, there were these people called Romans, who thought of a bundle of sticks. You could break any one stick, but it was a lot harder to break the whole bundle. Strength in numbers. Then they wound this bundle of sticks around an axe. The blade of the axe just peeked out from the bundle. This instrument was called a Fasces. Someone who wields it, who wields a bundle of sticks which conceal the blade of an axe, is a Fascist. Someone who thinks this is good follows Fascism.”
“You don’t like Fascism, do you?” asked fuzzy wuzzy cute and fluffy clean and puffy Stin.
“Fascism got a lot of people made into soap,” said the grumpy old toad.
The Priests of Mammon started to charge rent. They said that anything worth having was worth paying for. The people felt a little confused about that. But still, the people were still happy and they still told stories.
The tone of toadly stories got darker still. Stin began to think they were Scarie. He applied the message to the messenger. Only Scarie People think Scarie things, right?
Since the Priests of Mammon who owned Streets of Gold Inc. didn’t like Scarie People, Scarie People had to be bad, right? After all, they owned the Island. Weren’t they therefore the cause of all the happiness?
Isn’t authority always good? Stin asked himself this and decided.
He was happy he was crappy he had his reasoning all completely gappy. Maybe it was because of his pappy.
The toad got up to read a story. It was a thinly cloaked allegory.
Before he could even say one word, Stin knew then that he couldn’t be heard. Bracing his axe against his thumb, he cut off the toad and struck him dumb. The sticks they cushioned up the shock, as Poor Stin slid down cliffs of rock.
The toad he left the Island then, and never would return again.
Scarie People all were banished, stories were told but laughter vanished. For laughter is close kin to fear, and you can’t laugh unless it’s near.
The Priests heaped lauds on fuzzy Stin, told him he was one of them. And so by rite of something black and something red, something stolen, something dead, Stin into Mammon’s Bawn was led.
That night people went to sleep. When they woke they all were sheep. |
