Tragedy + Time = Comedy
Jun 20, 2016 8:46:39 GMT -5
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Nathan Saniti and The Anarchist like this
Post by Grimm on Jun 20, 2016 8:46:39 GMT -5
A field of hay, cut and baled and carried away on the back of a truck. The mower stood in the fodder on the longest day of the year and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. The heat and humidity of a river valley summer, where no trees served as respite unless one climbed high up in the hills. Up there, where a hornet nest hung halfway up a walnut tree. The mower heard the low thrum of the hornets’ drone. He whipped his handkerchief to drive away a horsefly, then a sweat bee. He scratched a phantom itch on his forearm, covered in freckles brought out by a morning spent in the sun.
The mower stood in front of a booth in the middle of the field. Its canvas awning striped a deep scarlet, its front decorated with suns and moons and stars. A hideous puppet with googly eyes and a pointed hat held a piece of wood in its tiny hands, and wailed upon an equally hideous female puppet. It swung and swung and swung with all its might long after its partner stopped twitching. The puppet reached up and wiped its face, letting out a sigh as if exhausted by the work. Then it turned and looked at the mower.
“You won’t tell anyone what happened, will you, boys and girls? This can be our little secret.”
The puppet swept the broken bits of plaster and cloth off the set with the murder weapon. It bobbed back and forth in something of a dance as another puppet emerged from the booth, clad all in black with a black hat and white collar.
“Good morning, Mr. Punch.”
Punch stopped his dancing and turned to the priest.
“Oh, Father, I’ve done a naughty thing.”
“What have you done, my child?”
“This.”
And Mr. Punch launched himself at the priest, beating it even more savagely than poor old Judy, as if that was even possible. When he’d finished, he added this wreckage to the pile on the ground. Then he commenced his odd little dance again.
The sheriff rose up from behind the stage and ambled over. He tapped Mr. Punch on the shoulder with his pistol.
“Mr. Punch, I’ve received reports about some disturbing events around here. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Maybe. Come with me.”
The puppets jostled up and down in place.
“Is that what they told you?”
The sheriff looked at the ground and hopped back. Then looked back at the pile of ruin, then at Mr. Punch, down, and up.
“Judas Priest, Mr. Punch. I’ve never seen such a horrible thing in all my years as a law man.”
“Yes, it’s pretty impressive.”
“How would someone even go about doing that to a person?”
“Just like this.”
You can guess what happened next. Once the first one went, they all had to go. Now Mr. Punch’s dance became a frenzy, and he a whirling dervish of harlequin prints and floppy arms. That is, until yet another puppet came about. A red puppet with long curled horns and holding an enormous hay fork.
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Punch.”
“Is it? Are you sure?”
“Yes. You’re a most wicked puppet, and I’ve come to collect you.”
“Well, I guess I had that coming. Didn’t I, boys and girls?”
Lucifer turned to face the mower.
“Who are you talking to?”
With that, Mr. Punch blindsided him.
“Take that, Devil! And that! And that!”
All in all, Mr. Punch kept at it until there was nothing left but a red smear on the booth. A breeze came up the hollow, picked up the dust that had once been the Lord of Flies, and carried it off into the hills. Mr. Punch weaved from side to side.
“The Devil is dead. Now we can do whatever we want!”
The mower narrowed his eyes. The two blue growlers of ice moved from the puppet to his scythe and back. What was the lesson in any of this?
He looked back to the enormous curved blade at his side. The chine held its edge even after a full day of reaping. The mower shifted his hands and tightened his fingers around the grips.
Maybe that was the lesson. Maybe there was no rhyme or reason to any of this.
He raised his scythe.
“I harvest thus, and so.”
The mower stood in front of a booth in the middle of the field. Its canvas awning striped a deep scarlet, its front decorated with suns and moons and stars. A hideous puppet with googly eyes and a pointed hat held a piece of wood in its tiny hands, and wailed upon an equally hideous female puppet. It swung and swung and swung with all its might long after its partner stopped twitching. The puppet reached up and wiped its face, letting out a sigh as if exhausted by the work. Then it turned and looked at the mower.
“You won’t tell anyone what happened, will you, boys and girls? This can be our little secret.”
The puppet swept the broken bits of plaster and cloth off the set with the murder weapon. It bobbed back and forth in something of a dance as another puppet emerged from the booth, clad all in black with a black hat and white collar.
“Good morning, Mr. Punch.”
Punch stopped his dancing and turned to the priest.
“Oh, Father, I’ve done a naughty thing.”
“What have you done, my child?”
“This.”
And Mr. Punch launched himself at the priest, beating it even more savagely than poor old Judy, as if that was even possible. When he’d finished, he added this wreckage to the pile on the ground. Then he commenced his odd little dance again.
The sheriff rose up from behind the stage and ambled over. He tapped Mr. Punch on the shoulder with his pistol.
“Mr. Punch, I’ve received reports about some disturbing events around here. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Maybe. Come with me.”
The puppets jostled up and down in place.
“Is that what they told you?”
The sheriff looked at the ground and hopped back. Then looked back at the pile of ruin, then at Mr. Punch, down, and up.
“Judas Priest, Mr. Punch. I’ve never seen such a horrible thing in all my years as a law man.”
“Yes, it’s pretty impressive.”
“How would someone even go about doing that to a person?”
“Just like this.”
You can guess what happened next. Once the first one went, they all had to go. Now Mr. Punch’s dance became a frenzy, and he a whirling dervish of harlequin prints and floppy arms. That is, until yet another puppet came about. A red puppet with long curled horns and holding an enormous hay fork.
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Punch.”
“Is it? Are you sure?”
“Yes. You’re a most wicked puppet, and I’ve come to collect you.”
“Well, I guess I had that coming. Didn’t I, boys and girls?”
Lucifer turned to face the mower.
“Who are you talking to?”
With that, Mr. Punch blindsided him.
“Take that, Devil! And that! And that!”
All in all, Mr. Punch kept at it until there was nothing left but a red smear on the booth. A breeze came up the hollow, picked up the dust that had once been the Lord of Flies, and carried it off into the hills. Mr. Punch weaved from side to side.
“The Devil is dead. Now we can do whatever we want!”
The mower narrowed his eyes. The two blue growlers of ice moved from the puppet to his scythe and back. What was the lesson in any of this?
He looked back to the enormous curved blade at his side. The chine held its edge even after a full day of reaping. The mower shifted his hands and tightened his fingers around the grips.
Maybe that was the lesson. Maybe there was no rhyme or reason to any of this.
He raised his scythe.
“I harvest thus, and so.”
