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RedPiggy
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This is based on The Shoemaker and the Elves.... It's also on ff.net.
Baby Sinclair, just barely a year old, sat in his crib, his purple eyes getting heavier and heavier. However, he had not yet seen his grandmother, Grandma Ethyl, and she owed him a story. After waiting a few moments, he grunted in irritation. “Take the lead out!” he barked in a high squeaky voice towards his bedroom door.
The door opened as Grandma Ethyl rolled into the bedroom in her old electric wheelchair. They shared similar facial features, though he was pink while she was brownish-gray. They also shared a snarky sense of humor, much to the chagrin of Earl Sinclair, the Baby’s daddy. Grandma Ethyl took out the book, its corners dog-eared, from beside her in the chair as she shook her head. Her voice was scratchy. “I was trying to decide which story to tell you,” she said with a slight growl. She patted the book with a wrinkly hand. “I think this one will be good for tonight.”
Baby’s eyes widened. “Ooh,” he cooed, “is it ‘Goldiscales’?”
Grandma Ethyl shook her head. “No, we sold the rights to that one to the cartoon company with that singing rat.” She opened the book. “I want to tell you about the first two dinosaurs ever put on Pangaea.”
Baby snorted. “Boring,” he announced.
“Oh, really?” Grandma Ethyl retorted. “It’s a story of important spiritual significance to all dinosaur kind.”
Baby crossed his chubby arms in defiance, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. “Is there a holiday involved?”
“No….”
Baby frowned. “No holiday, no presents … boring!” he shot back. “Next!”
This time it was Grandma Ethyl who frowned. She rolled her eyes. “Whatever could I have been thinking?” she muttered, disappointed. “I suppose you have a suggestion?”
Baby brightened back up. “Yeah! Something with little furry creatures … and swamp monsters … and blood!”
Ethyl sighed. “I see.” She threw the first book behind her and took out another book, darker and even more torn up than the last one. “This is just the fairy tale for you, called The Mammals and the Cook.”
Baby leaned closer. “Cook eats mammals – the end. Next!”
Ethyl slapped her hand hard down on her lap. “Why don’t I go into the living room and watch late-night TV while you tell yourself a story?”
Baby crouched down in submission. “No, it’s okay,” he replied. “You tell ‘em better.”
Ethyl smiled briefly. “Thank you.”
A long time ago, a poor cook had very little food to sell. All he had left was a couple of eggs and some long brown grass. So, he decided he would try to make something out of that, but it was too late at night after attending a blow-out parade where dinosaurs bared their tails for necklaces made out of berries. The cook went to sleep on a small cot, his designer king-sized mattress having been repossessed last month.
In the morning, he discovered what would become known as a loaf of bread. It was cooked with all the ingredients he had left, even the blueberry necklace he had won the night before.
“Who wrote this story?” Baby demanded.
Without looking up, Ethyl curtly replied, “Your mother’s Uncle Elmo, my brother.”
Baby snickered.
“What’s so funny?” Ethyl asked, irritated. “I don’t care what old Fat Boy said about him, he wasn’t an --.”
“But it’s a stupid name,” Baby interrupted, laughing and giggling.
“I hope that name haunts you the rest of your sad little life,” Ethyl mumbled before picking up where she left off.
The loaf of bread was like nothing he had ever seen before. It filled the whole room with a pleasing aroma and the best part was that there wasn’t any fur or bones or anything to clean up afterward.
A young dinosaur came into his house, having smelled the wonderful new food, and offered a hundred bucks for it.
“For bread?” Baby asked in shock.
“This was before they realized what a carb nightmare the stuff was,” she replied matter-of-factly.
Each night, the cook left out random ingredients, and each morning a new amazing foodstuff appeared: donuts, yogurt, soy-based TV dinners … you name it. Finally, around the time Pangaeans celebrated the solemn and holy Refrigerator Day holiday, the cook decided to find out who had been helping keep his shop afloat. He set up a basic security system and watched the real-time video feed one night and noticed a troop of small mammals of various shapes and colors dancing their way into his kitchen. They cooked all night long and cleaned up just before dawn. Then, they left just as joyfully as they had entered.
Naturally, the cook wanted --.
“To put them in a stew!” Baby cheerfully offered.
-- to thank his little helpers. He set about making a restaurant-quality set of dishes and silverware and other industrial cookware.
“Wait a minute,” Baby interrupted again, “since when do cooks make cooking stuff?”
“He was multi-talented,” Ethyl replied, her voice rising, betraying increasing frustration.
“Then why didn’t he just make dishes instead of food? He coulda avoided this whole story!”
“Naturally, I want to finish this story before I die,” Ethyl growled. “I’m seventy-three. No one knows how long dinosaurs can live. If I have to waste the rest of my life justifying every single cotton-picking sentence --.”
“What happened then?” Baby asked, his voice humbler and more innocent.
The next night, the mammals came back, and the cook was amazed at how loyal they had been to him all these months. He hoped they would really enjoy their presents. They stood before the new equipment, gawking at the shininess of it all. The cook could bear it no longer, and revealed himself.
“Grandma!” Baby gasped in horror. “Telling stories like that to a baby!”
Ethyl sneered. “It means he stopped hiding from them!” she roared.
“Oh.”
“I made these all for you, for all the help you’ve given me!” the cook proclaimed happily.
The mammals smiled and took off with their new tools, singing as they ran. The cook sighed cheerfully and started to head off to bed when red and blue lights flickered on and off outside his house. Half a dozen cops stormed into the kitchen and ordered him to freeze.
“What have I done?” the cook pleaded.
“You knowingly hired non-citizens for your business,” one cop barked gruffly. “That is a felony!”
And so the cook was taken to prison, bunked with a strong-armed allosaur named Milton, and was torn to shreds at a carnival and sold as meat-on-a-stick.
“Oooh,” Baby cooed with rapt attention. “Then what happened?”
Ethyl shrugged. “The visitors all got food poisoning – how should I know?” She placed the book back at her side. “I’m not the one who wrote it.”
“Read me another one! One that has more gore!”
Ethyl shook her head. “Oh, no – you’re going to bed.”
Baby growled, glaring at his grandmother. “Read me another story or I’ll talk all night!”
Ethyl grinned. “Well, the only story I’ve got that is even grosser than the one I told you is the story of this sore I’ve got on the back of my tail ….”
Baby yawned, stretching his limbs as far as he could. “Gotta go to bed now! Good night!” he chirped in a panicked tone as he closed his eyes.
Ethyl cackled as she left the room.
Baby Sinclair, just barely a year old, sat in his crib, his purple eyes getting heavier and heavier. However, he had not yet seen his grandmother, Grandma Ethyl, and she owed him a story. After waiting a few moments, he grunted in irritation. “Take the lead out!” he barked in a high squeaky voice towards his bedroom door.
The door opened as Grandma Ethyl rolled into the bedroom in her old electric wheelchair. They shared similar facial features, though he was pink while she was brownish-gray. They also shared a snarky sense of humor, much to the chagrin of Earl Sinclair, the Baby’s daddy. Grandma Ethyl took out the book, its corners dog-eared, from beside her in the chair as she shook her head. Her voice was scratchy. “I was trying to decide which story to tell you,” she said with a slight growl. She patted the book with a wrinkly hand. “I think this one will be good for tonight.”
Baby’s eyes widened. “Ooh,” he cooed, “is it ‘Goldiscales’?”
Grandma Ethyl shook her head. “No, we sold the rights to that one to the cartoon company with that singing rat.” She opened the book. “I want to tell you about the first two dinosaurs ever put on Pangaea.”
Baby snorted. “Boring,” he announced.
“Oh, really?” Grandma Ethyl retorted. “It’s a story of important spiritual significance to all dinosaur kind.”
Baby crossed his chubby arms in defiance, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. “Is there a holiday involved?”
“No….”
Baby frowned. “No holiday, no presents … boring!” he shot back. “Next!”
This time it was Grandma Ethyl who frowned. She rolled her eyes. “Whatever could I have been thinking?” she muttered, disappointed. “I suppose you have a suggestion?”
Baby brightened back up. “Yeah! Something with little furry creatures … and swamp monsters … and blood!”
Ethyl sighed. “I see.” She threw the first book behind her and took out another book, darker and even more torn up than the last one. “This is just the fairy tale for you, called The Mammals and the Cook.”
Baby leaned closer. “Cook eats mammals – the end. Next!”
Ethyl slapped her hand hard down on her lap. “Why don’t I go into the living room and watch late-night TV while you tell yourself a story?”
Baby crouched down in submission. “No, it’s okay,” he replied. “You tell ‘em better.”
Ethyl smiled briefly. “Thank you.”
A long time ago, a poor cook had very little food to sell. All he had left was a couple of eggs and some long brown grass. So, he decided he would try to make something out of that, but it was too late at night after attending a blow-out parade where dinosaurs bared their tails for necklaces made out of berries. The cook went to sleep on a small cot, his designer king-sized mattress having been repossessed last month.
In the morning, he discovered what would become known as a loaf of bread. It was cooked with all the ingredients he had left, even the blueberry necklace he had won the night before.
“Who wrote this story?” Baby demanded.
Without looking up, Ethyl curtly replied, “Your mother’s Uncle Elmo, my brother.”
Baby snickered.
“What’s so funny?” Ethyl asked, irritated. “I don’t care what old Fat Boy said about him, he wasn’t an --.”
“But it’s a stupid name,” Baby interrupted, laughing and giggling.
“I hope that name haunts you the rest of your sad little life,” Ethyl mumbled before picking up where she left off.
The loaf of bread was like nothing he had ever seen before. It filled the whole room with a pleasing aroma and the best part was that there wasn’t any fur or bones or anything to clean up afterward.
A young dinosaur came into his house, having smelled the wonderful new food, and offered a hundred bucks for it.
“For bread?” Baby asked in shock.
“This was before they realized what a carb nightmare the stuff was,” she replied matter-of-factly.
Each night, the cook left out random ingredients, and each morning a new amazing foodstuff appeared: donuts, yogurt, soy-based TV dinners … you name it. Finally, around the time Pangaeans celebrated the solemn and holy Refrigerator Day holiday, the cook decided to find out who had been helping keep his shop afloat. He set up a basic security system and watched the real-time video feed one night and noticed a troop of small mammals of various shapes and colors dancing their way into his kitchen. They cooked all night long and cleaned up just before dawn. Then, they left just as joyfully as they had entered.
Naturally, the cook wanted --.
“To put them in a stew!” Baby cheerfully offered.
-- to thank his little helpers. He set about making a restaurant-quality set of dishes and silverware and other industrial cookware.
“Wait a minute,” Baby interrupted again, “since when do cooks make cooking stuff?”
“He was multi-talented,” Ethyl replied, her voice rising, betraying increasing frustration.
“Then why didn’t he just make dishes instead of food? He coulda avoided this whole story!”
“Naturally, I want to finish this story before I die,” Ethyl growled. “I’m seventy-three. No one knows how long dinosaurs can live. If I have to waste the rest of my life justifying every single cotton-picking sentence --.”
“What happened then?” Baby asked, his voice humbler and more innocent.
The next night, the mammals came back, and the cook was amazed at how loyal they had been to him all these months. He hoped they would really enjoy their presents. They stood before the new equipment, gawking at the shininess of it all. The cook could bear it no longer, and revealed himself.
“Grandma!” Baby gasped in horror. “Telling stories like that to a baby!”
Ethyl sneered. “It means he stopped hiding from them!” she roared.
“Oh.”
“I made these all for you, for all the help you’ve given me!” the cook proclaimed happily.
The mammals smiled and took off with their new tools, singing as they ran. The cook sighed cheerfully and started to head off to bed when red and blue lights flickered on and off outside his house. Half a dozen cops stormed into the kitchen and ordered him to freeze.
“What have I done?” the cook pleaded.
“You knowingly hired non-citizens for your business,” one cop barked gruffly. “That is a felony!”
And so the cook was taken to prison, bunked with a strong-armed allosaur named Milton, and was torn to shreds at a carnival and sold as meat-on-a-stick.
“Oooh,” Baby cooed with rapt attention. “Then what happened?”
Ethyl shrugged. “The visitors all got food poisoning – how should I know?” She placed the book back at her side. “I’m not the one who wrote it.”
“Read me another one! One that has more gore!”
Ethyl shook her head. “Oh, no – you’re going to bed.”
Baby growled, glaring at his grandmother. “Read me another story or I’ll talk all night!”
Ethyl grinned. “Well, the only story I’ve got that is even grosser than the one I told you is the story of this sore I’ve got on the back of my tail ….”
Baby yawned, stretching his limbs as far as he could. “Gotta go to bed now! Good night!” he chirped in a panicked tone as he closed his eyes.
Ethyl cackled as she left the room.
