Cross-Dressed
Fairy Tales
By: Dawn De Winter
Part 3
In parts 1 and 2, Sherry and
Sadie, two married men, went to a lesbian bar on their “girl’s night out.”
There they came into the clutches of Mike and Big Sue, and are in danger of
being raped – or worse – if Sherry cannot keep Big Sue entertained with
“original” stories. This task has just become a mite more difficult with the
arrival two more people. Can they too be kept satisfied?
Part 3 is based on Pinocchio,
the story of the wooden puppet who wanted to be a real live boy. But in a cross-dressed
fairy tail, it’s more likely that a male puppet is going to end up being a real
live girl. Thanks are owed to Tracy for suggesting that it’s not only the nose that can
grow when one tells a lie.
On the other hand, Tracy, why
couldn’t you have suggested a shorter story for Sherry to “borrow”? Cripes, The
Adventures of Pinocchio is a book with 36 chapters! Readers pressed for
time may want to skip this tale, and move onto the next, which I promise will
be much, much shorter. On the other hand, the plot of the original story is
far from predictable (or recognizable if you know only Disney), and it’s worth
following, no matter how transmogrified. (Amazingly, that last word is in
Word’s basic dictionary. Do you suppose that Bill Gates gives seminars about
the ‘transmogrification’ of Microsoft? Or does he only whisper the naughty word
in bed?)
The adventures of our
Marionette, Pierrot, begin in a “superior land” which may remind you of a
European country, just as part 2 may have reminded you of a “fair land” far …
psychologically, very far … from Texas, but nevertheless bordering on the states
of Washington, Montana, and New York.
Obviously, Part 2 took place
in high summer because not a snowflake fell in it -- which should prove to you
that there is NO STEREOTYPING or cheap, obvious jokes, none at all, in the
cross-dressed fairy tales!! (By the way, anyone who believes the preceding
sentence should contact me about sharing my Nigerian inheritance. These
stories are not making me rich, but maybe you can.)
The Adventures of Pierrot
By: Sherry
Sherry
didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified to see two men at the door.
One did look a bit intimidating: thirty-something with the stylishly unshaven
face and shaven head of a Hell’s Angel, he was dressed in kick-ass boots; super
tight, faded blue jeans; a studded, black biker jacket; a white “Hey Stella!” T-shirt
to show off his rippling physique; and a wide, leather belt, from which hung
several key chains, from which hung several more key chains.
His
companion, on the other hand, looked gay. Sporting a woven toque, Nike
sneakers, baggy jeans, and a T-shirt much too large for his scrawny physique,
he looked just like Eminem, the melts-in-your hand rapper. Sherry didn’t like
the look of the pair. “Will there be trouble,” he wondered when “Butch” learns
that “Eminem” is a fairy?
To
Sherry’s surprise, “Butch” – whose real name was Randy -- had a high, squeaky
lisp, while “Eminem,” or Brad, had a deep base falsetto. Appearances could be
deceiving! The two men, it turned out, were lovers. “But we’re not against a
threesome,” Brad hinted, “just so long as the fairy in the bra and panties is
not on top.”
Sherry
was appalled. It was bad enough, he thought, to be caught with his panties
showing by two males, but for them to assume that he wanted to be the bottom
flower in a daisy-chain, was – let us not mince words – an insult, a veritable
insult to his masculinity! He puffed out his padded breasts and sucked in his
padded bottom to make it clear that he was, where men were concerned, an
untouchable.
Fortunately,
Big Sue came to his rescue – at least temporarily. “The bitch is mine,” she
said. “You can have seconds, but his ass belongs to my fist. Got it, boys?”
“Whatever
you say, doll face,” Randy lisped. “When it’s my turn, will you hold the
girlie-boy down for me?”
“That’s
another way of his asking you to stay,” Brad explained, “while we show the
sissy what man-to-man sex is all about. Randy likes to have an audience.”
“Sure,
why not. I’ve got a digital movie camera. Are you ready, Sherry, my sweet, to
become an Internet star?”
Sherry
gulped. He wasn’t sure his wife would understand if he emerged as a
cross-dressed, gay porn star. She’d wonder about his sexuality and fidelity. So
he continued to play for time. First, he insisted on looking in on Mike and
Sadie – just to make sure that his friend was intact. It seemed he was. Both
Mike and Sadie were smoking cigarets, which seemed friendly enough, although
later Sherry began to question the idyllic scene. After all, she’d not seen
Sadie smoke in years – and not once through a cigaret-holder in her upturned
butt.
But
second thoughts were not first thoughts, and there was nothing in the bedroom
to justify lingering a while. Indeed, given the way the two gay males were
leering at her, she decided it was time to resume her story-telling. To catch
them in her web of woven tales, she decided to risk Big Sue’s wrath by focusing
her third tale on a bad boy (or is that a good girl?) and his father. As Brad
and Randy settled down to hear her tale, they held – and occasionally caressed
– Sherry’s thighs, while Big Sue kept a close grip on his neck. Now, it’s to
be understood that Sherry occasionally ended her paragraphs with giggles,
sighs, and choking sounds, but for the sake of brevity and clarity, these will
be assumed rather than transcribed.
Sherry
began her tale –
Centuries
ago there lived in a superior land –
"A
lascivious lesbian!" said Big Sue immediately. “No, a horny hunk,” Brad
hazarded.
Sherry
replied, “No, guys, you are both mistaken. Once upon a time there was a piece
of wood. Will it turn into the handsomest woman has ever known? Or will it
become the most beautiful man in the world? You’ll never know the answer if
you interrupt. Please let me tell the tale in my own way.” In a bid to win
their acquiescence, Sherry batted his drooping eyelashes, but one fell off,
fluttering to the ground like a dying housefly, and his audience looked away in
silent embarrassment.
Sherry
filled the void with his tale --
It
was not an expensive piece of wood. Far from it. Just a common piece of pine,
but it had once appeared more glorious. Long ago it had been stained to look
like ebony, and upon it could still be seen the fading remnant of a golden
letter “N” girdled with laurel leaves. No longer worthy of an emperor or …
(Big Sue was glaring!) … a queen, it was best used as firewood, to make
the cold rooms of humble folk cozy and warm.
One
fine day this piece of wood found itself in the shop of an old carpenter. His
real name was Lepen, but everyone called him Maitre Cerise, for in the local
dialect of his ancient land, “cerise” was the word for cherry, and heavy
tippling had made the tip of his long, long nose so round and red and shiny
that it looked like a ripe cherry.
As
soon as he saw that piece of wood, Maitre Cerise was filled with joy. Rubbing
his hands together happily, he mumbled half to himself: "This has come in
the nick of time. I shall use it to make the leg of a Looie Cat-Oars
table."
Randy, Brad and Big Sue
looked confused. They even took to scratching each other’s head. So Sherry
had to explain, “In Maitre Cerise’s country, animals were so beloved that it
was chic to own furniture carved with cats rowing or dogs playing baccarat.”
Big
Sue snorted. Danish Pre-Modern appealed to her more than carved table legs,
but Randy was impressed: He’d seen a similar table in a trendy Provincetown
boutique. Or had it been in Soho? Wherever. The table had been extravagantly
expensive, so he had lusted after it.
Sherry
resumed her history –
Maitre
Cerise grasped his hatchet to shape the wood, but as he was about to give it
the first blow, he heard a petite, little voice beseech: "If it pleases
you, take carrre! Hit me not too harrrd!"
What
a look of surprise shone on Maitre Cerise’s face! He turned frightened eyes
about the room to find out where that petite, little voice had come from and he
saw no one. He opened the door to look up and down the street--and still he
saw no person.
"Oh,
I see!" he then said, laughing and scratching his toupee. "I must
have been imagining the call for help. Well, well--to work encore."
“Encore?
What’s with the fancy-schmantzy French words?” Big Sue groused. “Ain’t plain ‘merican
good enough for you anymore?” She spat on her carpet.
“I’m
putting a lot of fine French words – you know, bone mows – into this story so
that you will appreciate that I’m a genuine intellectual,” Sherry replied. “In
effect, French is the language of the great poets – of Doggerel, Limerick, and
Hallmark – as well as being the language …,” Sherry paused suggestively, “… of
love.”
Brad
leered: “I tell you what, Sherry, you can French kiss Randy while I’m
vigorously plucking your cherry behind.”
“But
I’ve already told you, I’m not gay,” Sherry protested loudly.
“Then
why are you wearing panties and a brassiere? Hey, I’m an intellectual too; I
can speak French. Brassiere – that’s a French word, sure enough,” Randy mocked
in his high-pitched voice, as he pinched Sherry’s left breast form.
“I’m
afraid that the French is actually ….” Sherry got no further, for Big Sue
choked off the next few words – something about a Sudanese gorge – with her
right hand around Sherry’s bobbing Adam’s apple, as she indicated that he
should get on with his tale.
Sherry
resumed his petite history –
Seeing
no one around, Maitre Cerise whacked the wood hard.
"Oh, oh! You hurrrrt!"
cried the little voice.
Maitre
Cerise grew dumb as a talkative mime. His eyes popped out of his head, his
mouth opened wide, and his tongue hung down on his chin. Indeed, he looked like
he was blind drunk on bourbon, or, if you prefer, like a blind Bourbon drunk.
As
soon as he regained the use of his senses, he said, trembling and stuttering
from fright: "Wh … wh …where did that voice come from, when there is no
one around? Is it that this piece of wood has learned to cry like a child? I
can hardly believe it. Here it is--a piece of common pine, its gilt paint so
faded that it’s good now only to burn in the stove, the same as any other. Yet,
might someone be hidden in it? If so, the worse for him or her. I'll fix him or
her!"
With
these words, he grabbed the wood with both hands and knocked it about
unmercifully. He threw it to the floor, against the walls of the room, and even
up to the ceiling. “I am Maitre Cerise,” the ruby-nosed muttered aloud; “I am
master of wood. Even the most existential of hardwoods – Brazilian walnut and
Cambodian teak – have not the will to resist my force. As for pine, it will –
and must – submit to me.”
And
yet it did not. So feeble had Maitre Cerise become in his dotage that he could
not even intimidate a decaying morsel of softwood. This time the tiny voice
giggled as it spoke: "Stop it! Oh, arrrrest it! Ha, ha, ha! You tickle my
stomach."
This
time poor Maitre Cherry fell to the floor as if shot. When he opened his eyes,
he found himself sitting on a Persian rug. His face had changed – fright had
turned even the tip of his nose from red to deepest purple. “I must appease
this pine,” he thought, “before it starts beating on me.”
In
that very instant, a loud knock sounded on the door. "Enter," said
the carpenter, not having the courage to stand up.
At
the words, the door opened and an elderly, big-nosed man with a giant forehead
entered.. His name was Jacquot Sheerak, but to the boys of the neighborhood he
was “Jepeto,” on account of his being an “old fart.” Poor man, whenever he
opened his mouth to speak after a rich meal – for example, after a snack of
goose liver, sea snails, and black fungi – he’d let loose a “pet,” as it was
called in the local slang -- which made it clear that he was speaking out of
both sides of his … body.
Jacquot
had a very bad temper. Woe to the one who called him Jepeto! He became as wild
as a poodle and not even a brandy could soothe him.
"Good
day, Maitre Cerise," said Jacquot. "What are you doing sprawled out
on that exquisite Oriental rug?"
"I
am teaching the ants their Ah, Bay, Says."
"Good
luck to you! It is extraordinarily difficult to teach our beautiful language
to lesser life forms – such as insects, parrots, and Texans.”
What
brought you here, my friend Jacquot?"
"My
legs, naturally. And it may flatter you to know, Maitre Cerise, that I have
come to beg for a favor."
"Here
I am, at your service," answered the carpenter, raising himself on to his
knees. (Brad and Randy winked at each other. They thought they knew what was
going to happen next.)
"This
morning a typically brilliant idea came to me while I was gnawing on the crust
of day-old, white bread as it my custom. I broke a crown ….”
“So
you decided to change your ways and henceforth to eat something softer in the
morning – like ham and eggs?
“Abandon
our ancient customs of breaking fast simply because I lost a crown? What do
you take me for? An Anglo-Saxon? No, if stale bread breaks my ageing teeth,
it is not a question of throwing out the bread. That would not be economical,
and the starving people of Africa would surely object to the waste. It is necessary
instead that I augment my income so that I can afford to fill my mouth – and
home – with gold, as much gold as possible.”
"Let's
hear how you’ll achieve that," said Maitre Cerise.
"I
thought of making myself a beautiful wooden Marionette. It must be wonderful,
one that will be able to dance, fence, and turn somersaults. With it I intend
to go around the world to earn my crust of bread, cup of wine, and dental work.
What do you think of my high concept? Is it not worthy of an Enlightenment
philosopher?"
"Brrravo,
Jepeto!" cried the same tiny voice which came from no one knew where.
On hearing
himself called Jepeto, Jacquot turned the color of red velour, and, and, facing
the carpenter, said to him angrily: "Why do you insult me?"
"Who
is insulting you?"
"You
called me Jepeto."
"I
did not."
"I
suppose you think I insulted myself! Yet I KNOW it was you."
"No!"
"Yes!"
And
growing angrier each moment, they went from words to blows, then slaps on the
face, then pats on the derriere, and finally to goosing each other.
“I
knew it,” said Randy. “They’re gay, huh?”
“No,”
Sherry replied, “the people of the superior land merely act gay. I assure you
that our two heroes are so virile that they both have a wife AND a mistress.”
Big
Sue was unimpressed: “Two women each? That doesn’t prove the old geezers are
straight. The women are probably lesbians. That explains why they come in
pairs.”
“As
you wish,” said Sherry soothingly, as he resumed his tale –
Neither
man could win a fight, for neither ever had his heart in it. At last,
they kissed each other several times – on their cheeks, mind you – and made
up.
"Well
then, Maitre Jacquot," said the carpenter, "what is it you
want?"
"I
want a piece of wood to make a Marionette. Will you give it to me?"
Maitre
Cerise went immediately to his bench to get the piece of wood which had
frightened him so much. But as he was about to give it to his friend, with a
violent jerk it slipped out of his hands to strike against poor Jacquot’s bony
legs.
"Ah!
Is this the gentle way, Maitre Cerise, in which you make your gifts? You have
made me almost lame!"
"I
swear to you I did not do it!"
"Liar!"
"Jacquot,
do not insult me or I shall call you Jepeto."
"Burger
eater!"
"Jepeto!"
"Ketchup
user!"
"Jepeto!"
"Surrender
monkey!"
"Jepeto!"
On
hearing himself called Jepeto for the third time, Jacquot, enraged, threw
himself upon the carpenter. They once again dissembled a fight. By hazard,
their aimless thrusts occasionally hit home: Maitre Cerise ended up with two
scratches on his magnificent nose, and Jacquot had two buttons missing from his
designer suit. Thus having settled their accounts, they kissed each other
several times on the … CHEEK and swore to be good friends for the rest of their
lives.
Then
Jacquot took the block of faded pine, thanked Maitre Cerise and limped home.
It
was, as usual, quite empty, his wife spending the night with his mistress, as
was their custom. Though quite petite, the house looked quite grand thanks to
artifice: the ancient hearth once opposite the front doorway had been replaced
by a trompe d’oeil of a magnificent Miele stove painted on the wall.
And over this German stove, there was painted a copper pot full of something
which kept boiling happily away and sending up clouds of what looked like real
steam.
Jacquot
immediately took out his tools and began to cut and shape the wood into a
Marionette. "What shall I call him?" he said to himself. "I
think I'll call him Pierrot, in honor of the great comedians who have graced
the superior land since antiquity.”
After choosing
the name for his Marionette, Jacquot set seriously to work to make the hair,
the forehead, the eyes. He gave special care to the noise, making it as
magnificently long as the block of wood permitted, for males in the superior
land valued a big proboscis because it allowed them to appear quite grand
whenever they looked down their noses at lesser beings, which was fairly
often.
Indeed,
a long snoot was considered essential for sniffing at sulfurous wine and moldy
cheese, and at aged pheasants and peasants, as well as for finding truffles,
and – it goes without saying – for being merely snooty.
Alas,
Jacquot made the nose too long, and most of it broke off in his hand. No
amount of glue could re-attach it, which meant that Pierrot ended up with a
little button nose so feminine in appearance that no one would believe that he
had anything between his legs. But in fact he did. As compensation for the
broken nose, Jacquot gave Pierrot a long, long penis – the ideal woody, in
effect, except that he made it flaccid and useless because if rigid, it might
break.
Next he made a mouth. No
sooner was it finished than it began to laugh and poke fun at him.
"Stop
laughing!" said Jacquot angrily; but he might as well have spoken to a striking
ticket salesman.
"Stop
laughing, I say!" he roared in a voice of thunder.
The
mouth stopped laughing, but it stuck out a long tongue. Was the Marionette
insulting Jacquot or offering himself for sex? Not knowing the answer, Jacquot
made believe he saw nothing and went on with his work. After the mouth, he made
the chin, then the neck, the shoulders, the stomach, the arms, the hands, and a
penis that stretched halfway to his left knee.
As
he was about to put the last touches on the finger tips, Jacquot felt his wig
being pulled off. He glanced up and what did he see? His black toupee was in
the Marionette's hand.
"Pierrot,
give me my toupee!"
But
instead of giving it back, Pierrot put it on his own head, which was half
swallowed up in it.
At
that unexpected trick, Jacquot became very sad and downcast, more so than he
had ever been before: "Pierrot, you wicked boy!" he cried out.
"Even though I have given you an enormous penis, you’re already acting
like a transvestite! And it’s frightening how feminine you look. Very bad, my
son, very bad!"
And
he wiped away a tear.
The
legs still had to be made. Jacquot tried to rough them up with sandpaper so
they wouldn’t look too smooth and hairless, but he failed miserably, for the
more he rubbed, the more feminine-looking the legs became.
Jacquot
took hold of the Marionette under the arms and put him on the floor to teach
him to walk. Pierrot's legs were so stiff that he could not move them, and so Jacquot
held his hand and showed him how to put out one foot after the other. When his
legs were limbered up, Pierrot started walking by himself, strutting like a
runway model, his bottom wiggling seductively. When he came to an open window,
with one leap he was out into the street. Away he flounced!
Poor
Jacquot was unable to run fast enough to catch him, for Pierrot was skipping
ahead in leaps and bounds. His two wooden feet, as they beat on the stones of
the street, made as much noise as twenty men staggering about on four-inch
spiked heels.
"Catch
him! Catch him!" Jacquot shouted. But the people in the street, seeing a
naked Marionette flapping in the breeze, stood still to stare and to laugh
until they cried. At last, a policeman grabbed Pierrot by his penis (it was so
extremely long that it seemed made for that very purpose) and returned him to
Maitre Jacquot, saying, “You’ll have to put some clothes on the Marionette.
It’s not decent for him to go about wagging that big thing.”
Jacquot
shook Pierrot two or three times and said to him angrily: "We're going
home now. When we get home, then we'll settle this matter!"
Pierrot,
on hearing this, threw himself on the ground and refused to take another step.
One person after another gathered around the two.
Some
said one thing, some another.
"Poor
Marionette," called out a man. "I am not surprised he doesn't want to
go home. Jacquot, no doubt, will beat him unmercifully. He doesn’t like
impudence from those he must subsidize.”
"Jacquot
may look like a good man," added another, "but with boys he cannot be
trusted. Why do you think he made a puppet with a nose so small and a schlong
so big? The puppet must be sexually confused; he’ll be easy prey. To leave
that poor Marionette in his hands would be like sending the boy to Neverland.”
They
said so much that, finally, the policeman ended matters by setting Pierrot at
liberty and dragging Jacquot off to prison. The poor old fellow did not know
how to defend himself from the official accusation that he was “acting
uncivilized,” but wept and wailed like a child, blubbering: “Ungrateful boy! To
think I tried so hard to make you a little gentleman! I deserve it, however! I
should have given the matter more thought. Once the nose broke, it was clear
that my boy was not going to turn out right!”
Was
it true? Was there something queer about the puppet – other than the obvious
fact that it was odd, even in a land passionate about talking, for a Marionette
to speak? After all, how normal could a boy with a pert little nose be? Shall
we see?
Once
free of the policeman’s clutches, Pierrot skipped homeward with gay abandon.
There he found the house door half open. Locking it, he threw himself on to
the floor, which had been painted to look like an imperial divan. Still naked,
he looked – if viewed from the right perspective – just like a Picasso nude.
His happiness lasted only a
short time, for just then he heard someone saying: “Cri-cri-cri!"
"Who
is calling me?" asked Pierrot, with terror..
"I
am!"
Pierrot
turned and saw a large cricket crawling slowly up the wall. Dressed in a prim,
loose-fitting black dress with a white collar, it was clearly a lady, despite
its heavy makeup, broad shoulders, small ass, and big feet.
"Tell
me, Cricket, who are you?"
"I
am Josephine, the Talking Cricket, and I have been living in this room for more
than one hundred years, ever since the celebration of our last great victory in
war."
"Today,
however, this room is mine," said the Marionette, "and if you wish to
do me a favor, get lost."
"I
refuse to leave this spot," answered the Cricket, "until I have told
you a great truth."
Pierrot
was unimpressed. He may have been born only today, but he already knew that
there was no “great truth”. Indeed, one’s man truth was another man’s lie. In
the superior land, it was bestial, indeed insect-like, to believe that there
were universal values to which all good men must cleave. “I am clever,” Pierrot
thought. “I can prove anything to be true, as my needs require.”
So
he was rather abrupt with Josephine: "Tell me the Great Truth,” he
snickered, “and then hurry off to find it."
Josephine
Cricket replied: "Woe to boys who refuse to obey their parents and run
away from home! They will never be happy in this world, and when they are older
they will be very sorry for it."
"Sing
on, Cricket mine, as you please. What I know is, that tomorrow, at dawn, I
shall leave this place forever. If I stay here the same thing will happen to me
which happens to all other boys and girls. They are sent to school and whether they
want to or not, they must study their letters, their numbers, and the proper
comportment for their sex. As for me, let me tell you, I hate to study! It's
much more fun, I think, to make origami butterflies, to skip rope, and to play
with dolls."
"Poor
little silly! Don't you know that if you go on like that, you will grow into a
perfect sissy and that you'll be the laughingstock of every other boy?"
"Keep
still, you ugly Cricket!" cried Pierrot.
The
insult stung. The Cricket had taken hours to get ready for this meeting, but
it was hard to look beautiful at his … er, her advanced age. Even so,
Josephine stayed in character: “If you do not like going to school, why don't
you at least learn a trade, so that you can earn an honest living? Sewing or
millinery might suit you."
"Shall
I tell you something?" asked Pierrot, who was losing patience. "Of
all the trades in the world, there is only one that really suits me."
"And
what can that be?"
"That
of eating, drinking, sleeping, and partying all night."
"Let
me tell you, for your own good, Pierrot," said the Talking Cricket in her
irritatingly calm voice, "that those who follow that trade always end up
in the hospital or in prison."
“Careful,
ugly Cricket! If you make me angry, you'll be sorry!"
"Poor
Pierrot, I am sorry for you."
"Why?"
"Because
you are a Marionette and, what is much worse, you have a small nose and an
uncomfortably long penis."
At
these last words, Pierrot jumped up in a fury, took a hammer from the bench,
and nailed the Talking Cricket.
With
a last weak "cri-cri-cri" the poor Cricket fell from the wall, dead!
“Wait
a second,” Brad interrupted. “This story is becoming goofy. What planet are
you coming from? Pluto? Don’t you know that talking animals are indestructible?”
“That’s
true,” Big Sue agreed. “I don’t ever recall seeing one die, leastwise not in a
movie.”
“Well,
this isn’t a movie,” replied Sherry. “In MY story, the cricket has to die. I
was going to have Pierrot whip up the perfect sauce for filet of cricket so
that you’d realize that he is, despite being a blockhead, an excellent chef.
Once you know that he has mastered the culinary arts, you can rest easy in the
knowledge that he is, despite first appearances, the hero of this story.”
“Oh,
I understand,” said Randy. But he didn’t really. However, he wasn’t the only
one who thought Josephine Cricket tiresome. After all, it wasn’t cricket to be
such a puritanical know-it-all.
Despite
an excellent sauce meuniere, the cricket did not long satisfy Pierrot’s
appetite. A growing boy, he was soon as ravenous as an American on a diet.
He ran about the room, dug in all the boxes and drawers, and even looked under
the bed in search of a croissant, a chocolate éclair, or scallops in a white
wine sauce – almost anything would have satisfied his appetite, so long as it was
tastefully prepared. Even bones would have sufficed, for he knew a simply
divine recipe for Osso Buco. But he found nothing.
And
meanwhile his hunger grew and grew. Soon he became dizzy and faint. He wept
and wailed to himself: "The Talking Cricket was right. It was stupid of me
to disobey Father and to pack him off to jail. If Jepeto were here now, I
wouldn't be so hungry! Oh, how horrible it is to be hungry!"
But
then, seeing a very realistic light bulb painted on a fashionably drawn Italian
lamp, Pierrot had a brilliant idea: “Deceit will get me what I want. I will
play the food vendors for fools.”
And
sure enough he soon obtained from the vendors in the open-air market an asparagus
quiche, an apple tart, a cultivated butter that quoted Rabelais as it was being
consumed, and a saucy white wine that suggested that it was too fine to be
drunk by someone so minor. To each of the people he swindled, Pierrot had
promised that his father Jacquot, who was known to all, would soon be by with
the payment.
Why
had the peddlers, who were normally as cynical as the rest of their countrymen,
fallen for such a naked falsehood? It was probably because of the Marionette’s
unblushing nudity. As he told his fibs, he not only remained a fashionably
pale white, but his nose did not grow; and everyone in the superior land knew
that nothing grew a nose faster than lying, as the extraordinary noses of the
country’s rulers amply revealed.
“The
Marinette can’t possibly be lyin’ to us,” Georges drawled. “After all, he has
the smallest damn nose I’ve ever seen on a boy. And it hasn’t grown at all.”
“You have
reason,” Antoinette seconded. “But did you see what’s been happening to his
orb and scepter? I swear they’ve been shrinking before my very eyes.”
Georges
scowled. He wasn’t about to admit that he too had been looking at the boy’s
privates – no matter how much they were on public display. But he had to say
something, so he remarked, “That boy’s looking a mite titty, don’t you
reckon?”
Antoinette
nodded: “A hormonal imbalance, I suppose. It’s bound to be a temporary
phenomenon. The boy will surely turn out all right.”
The
two vendors had noticed a very curious thing – whenever Pierrot told a lie, his
breast fat GREW and his genitals SHRANK by a millimeter. Pierrot didn’t notice
the changes to his body – not then, at least – because it took his entire
concentration to keep his lies straight; and later when he was alone at home,
it was only his nose that he measured in the vain hope that the lies of the day
had made it longer and more masterful.
As
the trompe d’oeil German stove failed to keep the room warm, Pierrot
built a fire in the center of the floor, using books with foreign influences.
Then, his belly full and his ego bloated, he fell asleep by the fire; and while
he slept, his wooden feet began to burn. Slowly, very slowly, they blackened
and turned to ashes.
Pierrot
snored away happily as if his feet were not his own. At dawn he opened his eyes
just as a loud knocking sounded at the door.
"Who
is it?" he called, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
"This
is me," answered a voice. It was the voice of Jacquot.
The
poor Marionette, still half asleep, had not yet found out that his two feet
were burned and gone. As soon as he heard his Father's voice, he jumped up from
his seat to open the door, but, as he did so, he staggered and fell headlong to
the floor.
"Open
the door for me!" Jacquot shouted from the street.
"Fatherrr,
dearrr Fatherrr, I can't," answered the Marionette in despair, crying and
rolling on the floor.
"Why
can't you?"
"Because
someone has eaten my feet."
"And
who has eaten them?"
“The
Lion King,” answered Pierrot, seeing a painting of the Disney animal on the
ceiling. “It envied the fact that I have … er, had … only two legs.”
With
these words, three things shrank, and two things grew, by a millimeter.
"Open!
I say," repeated Jacquot, "or I'll give you a sound whipping when I
get in."
"Fatherrr,
believe me, I can't stand up. Oh, dearrr! Oh, dearrr! I shall have to walk on
my knees all my life."
Jacquot,
thinking that all these tears and cries were more pranks from the Marionette,
climbed up the side of the house and went in through the window. At first he
was very vexed, but on seeing Pierrot stretched out on the floor without feet,
he felt very sad and sorrowful. Picking him up from the floor, he fondled and
caressed him, talking to him while the tears ran down his cheeks: "My
little Pierrot, how did you burn your feet?"
“It
was the Semenites, fatherrr. They used my legs to light theirrr wicks.”
Now,
that was a story that Jacquot could believe, for almost everyone in his land
mistrusted the Semenites, for their noses were even longer – without even
having to lie! – than those of the King and his courtiers. The Semenites
tried, as a result, to keep a small profile. Some bobbed their noses at great
expense, while others hid behind veils.
A
victim of the Semenites! Jacquot felt so sorry for the puppet that he pulled
three pears out of his pocket, offered them to him, saying: "These three
pears were for my breakfast, but I give them to you gladly. Eat them and stop
weeping."
"If
you want me to eat them, please peel them forrr me, then poach them in a grrrand
and crrrude wine. The chocolate topping should be Belgian and as black as the
heart of darkness.”
Jacquot
was surprised: "You are so dainty and fussy about your food. Bad, very
bad!” Even in this gastronomic heaven, one didn’t expect to eat well at the
first “little” break in the nighttime’s fast unless … unless …
Was
it possible that the puppet was gay? Had Jacquot made a mistake in giving Pierrot
the giant flaccid tool of a gay male porn star in a lesbian movie?
In the end, Pierrot proved
to be less finicky than he had at first appeared: He was willing to let Jacquot
use a simple table wine for the poaching. “But this one time only,” the puppet
instructed.
As
soon as his hunger was appeased, Pierrot started to grumble and cry that he
wanted a new pair of feet. But Maitre Jacquot, in order to punish him for his
mischief, left him alone the whole morning. After their two-hour “dinner” from noon to two, Jacquot
said to him: "Why should I make your feet again? To see you run away once
more?"
"I
prrromise you," answered the Marionette, sobbing, "that from now on
I'll be good …"
"Boys
always promise that when they want something," said Jacquot.
"I
prrromise to go to school everrry day, to study, and to succeed--"
"Boys always sing that
song when they want their own will."
"But
I am not like otherrr boys!”
“All
too true,” Jacquot thought glumly. “You’re much prettier than most boys, with
a pert little nose that most girls in this country would kill for.”
Pierrot
continued to plead his case: “I am better than boys and I always tell the trrruth.”
The
boy checked his nose after telling that whopper, hoping it had grown. But
alas, it had not. His breasts were, however, quite another matter. But Pierrot
never checked them out, and his gonads were so outsized it never occurred to
him that they might be shrinking with the passage of lies.
Pierrot
kept lying: “I promise you, Fatherrr, that I'll learrrn a trrrade, and I'll be
the comforrrt of your old age."
Jacquot,
though trying to look very stern, felt his heart soften when he saw Pierrot so
unhappy. He said no more, but taking his tools and two pieces of wood, he set
to work diligently. In less than an hour the feet were finished, two slender,
nimble little feet, strong and quick, modeled as if by an artist's hands.
"Close
your eyes and sleep!" Jacquot then said to the Marionette.
Pierrot
closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep, while Jacquot stuck on the two feet
with a bit of glue melted in an eggshell, doing his work so well that the joint
was as flexible as a diplomat’s morals.
As
soon as the Marionette felt his new feet, he gave one leap from the table and
started to waltz around the room, singing “I could have danced all night,” as
if he had lost his head from very joy. When he changed to “I feel prrretty, oh
so prrretty,” his father silenced him with a stern look.
"To
show you how grrrateful I am to you, Fatherrr, I'll go to school now. But to go
to school I need a suit of clothes."
As Jacquot
had spent all his money on expensive wine and cheap women – or “Putins” – as
they were called east of his country, Jacquot did not have a penny in his
pocket. And so he made his son a “Little Lord Fauntleroy” suit of flowered
paper, a pair of strapped shoes from the fragrant leaves of a lavender bush
(with fashionable high heels made of bark), and a tiny cap from a bit of velvet
and a parakeet feather.
Pierrot
ran to look at himself in a bowl of watery Chablis, and he felt so happy that
he said proudly: "Now I look like a gentleman."
"Truly,
you have the look of haute couture," replied Jacquot, at the cost
of a slightly longer nose of his own. “A gentleman? Not exactly. It’s
unnerving how feminine the boy looks in that dress. I wish I’d the skill to
sew some trousers for him. Well, that big lump at his crotch will let everyone
know his true sex. But what could possibly be causing the folds in the
flowered paper at his chest?”
Pierrot interrupted his
thoughts: “In orrrderrr to go to school, I need an Ah-Bay-Say Book.”
"To
be sure! But how shall we get it?"
"That's
easy. We'll go to a bookstore and buy it."
"And
the money? Don’t you realize that the superior land has the most expensive
books in the world? And even then you have to cut the pages for yourself. Do
you have any money? I have none.”
It
was true. He had almost nothing in his pockets, for his workshop had produced
very little – nothing in fact – ever since his helpers had won a zero-hour
week.
“I
will be rrright back, Fatherrr.” And he was, soon enough, with the money for
his class reader and a chest that strained against his flowered dress even more,
and a crotch that strained against it even less. Indeed, it had taken so many
lies to get the money that Pierrot no longer looked well-hung.
He
then headed off to school – with all the best intentions. That is, until he
came upon a Marionette Theater. Though he could not read its sign, he knew
from the pictures that it featured puppets just like him. Pierrot, wild with
curiosity to know what was going on inside, lost all his pride and shamelessly
propositioned another boy: “Will you give me four petro-dollars if I give you
a kiss?”
“Why
would I want a kiss from a boy? I can’t get a buss on the cheek anytime I
want.”
“But
I’ll give you a French kiss. I bet you’ve never had one of those.”
The
boy nodded, his nose growing by a millimeter. He was definitely intrigued:
What it would be like, he wondered, to French-kiss someone his own age. Would
it be erotic? And were the flowered dress, velvet hat, and buckled shoes
feminine enough for him to pretend that Pierrot was a girl?
The
answer was yes: Pierrot looked feminine enough. So the two boys thrust their
tongues deep into each other’s mouth. It was a lingering kiss, but the human boy
refused to pay: “Why should I? You’ve filled my mouth with splinters,” he
wailed. “Father Paido, my rector, will be very upset.”
He
then ran off so distractedly that he ran headlong into a car parked on the
crosswalk, and thereafter was too splintered to pay his debts.
Pierrot
was almost in tears. The only one left outside the theater was a ragged immigrant
girl, who looked too unclean to kiss – even for four petro-dollars. But
fortunately Gitano wanted a school reader, which Pierrot quickly sold for hard
cash.
Quick
as a flash, Pierrot disappeared into the Marionette Theater. And there
something happened which almost caused a riot.
The
curtain was up and the performance had started.
Punch
and Judy were on stage and, as usual, they were threatening each other with
sticks and blows. The theater was full of people, enjoying the spectacle and
laughing till they cried at the antics of the two Marionettes.
“Bravo,” yelled out a distinguished
professor in the front row, “Your humor is so sophisticated – so very Jerry
Lewis.”
“I
am in accord!” shouted a theater critic. “The dialogue is the best I’ve heard
since Marcel Marceau’s one-man show.”
The
play continued for a few minutes, and then suddenly, without any warning, Punch
stopped talking. Turning toward the audience, he pointed to the rear of the
orchestra, yelling wildly at the same time: "Look, look! Am I asleep or
awake? Do I really see Pierrot there?"
"Yes,
yes! It is Pierrot!" screamed Judy.
"It
is! It is!" shrieked Jospino, peeking in from the side of the stage.
"It
is Pierrot!" yelled all the Marionettes, pouring out of the wings.
"It is our brother Pierrot! Hurrah for Pierrot!"
"Pierrot,
come up to me!" shouted Punch. "Come to the arms of your wooden
brothers!"
At
such a loving invitation, Pinocchio, leapt on to the stage. There then ensued
a frenzy of kissing – on every cheek the actors and actresses could find.
Embarrassed at having his flowered dress constantly flipped up in public, Pierrot
for the first time wished that he was wearing tailored slacks.
The
audience, seeing that the play had stopped, became angry and began to yell:
"The play, the play, we want the play!"
The
yelling was of no use, for the Marionettes, instead of going on with their act,
made twice as much racket as before, and, lifting up Pierrot on their
shoulders, carried him around the stage in triumph.
At
that very moment, the Director came out of his room. He had such a fearful
appearance that one look at him would fill you with horror. He was holding a
conical white hood and holy script for the play in one hand, an Uzi in another,
and was wearing a white linen dress, cinched at the waist by a belt of
explosives, on which there glowed a devil’s pentangle.
His
beard was as black as pitch, and so long that it stretched down to his Uzi.
His mouth was as wide as an oven, his two teeth like yellow fangs, and his
eyes, two red coals burning with fanaticism. In his huge, hairy hands, a long
whip, made of green paper money glued together by a black liquid, which swished
through the air in a dangerous way.
“Bring
that Marionette to me! He looks as if he were made of well-seasoned wood. He'll
make a fine fire for my spit." He then spat on the floor.
Punch and Judy hesitated a bit.
Then, frightened by a look from their master, they grabbed poor Pierrot, who
was wriggling and squirming like an eel and crying pitifully: “Fatherrr Jepeto,
save me! I don't want to die!”
To
Punch and Judy, he wailed, “Why have you betrayed me? Did you not say we were
a band of brothers allied for all eternity?”
They
shrugged: “Cease your theatrics. We are no longer on stage. Here, in the
kitchen, survival is all that counts. We must appease the Director. It is
your turn to be burned so that we can play another day.”
Meanwhile,
in the theater, great excitement reigned. There was much debate over whether or
not to help Pierrot to avoid the fire. Some said yes – “If we allow a
Marionette to die each time that beast gets hungry, won’t we soon run out of
Marionettes? How can we expect the show to continue without Marionettes?”
“Don’t
be silly,” replied some others, “Pierrot is responsible for his own doom. Had
he not barged into the theater, and had he not encouraged the other Marionettes
to ignore the script, then he – like the rest of the puppets – would be safe.”
One
final group carried the day by pointing out that Pierrot had acted alone. The assembly
could therefore ignore his troubles. The matter decided, the audience went off
to dine at the best restaurant in the land, for their debate had been as
entertaining as a play; and – more to the point – it had made them feel
important.
Meanwhile,
in the kitchen, Pierrot seemed doomed, for his fearful entreaties merely
strengthened the resolve of the Director to use him for fuel. Cowardice was,
so far as the Director was concerned, a burning offence. But, as he was about
to cast Pierrot into the flames, the Director gave a huge sneeze.
At
that sneeze, Punch smiled happily, and, leaning toward Pierrot, whispered,
“Good news, brother mine! The Director has sneezed and this is a sign that he
is allergic to you. You are saved!"
For
be it known, that the Director was allergic to many things. Softwood like pine
was not normally among them, but there was something about Pierrot – was it the
gilt paint and the fading “N” on his backside, or the ash from whence had come
his second pair of feet? – whichever, Pierrot was too hard a wood to burn with
impunity.
After
sneezing, the Director, ugly as ever, cried to Pierrot: “Get away from me.
You give me a funny feeling down here in my stomach and--E--tchee!--E--tchee!"
Two loud sneezes finished his speech.
"God
bless you!" said Pierrot.
All
the other Marionettes shuddered. They had crowded into the kitchen, keeping
well away from the fire, after the great theatrical debate had ended in a show
of heartfelt indifference. The puppets shuddered because Pierrot had mentioned
“God”. He might as well have said “pet,” for “God” was no longer a word used
in polite company in the superior land.
To
the Marionettes’ amazement, the Director smiled at the reference to God. “Ah,
you are a Marionette with faith. That is now rare except amongst the most ragged
of immigrants. Go home to your parents, child, and learn how to be a
God-fearing man. I shall use for fuel a faithless Marionette instead; he will
not fear that my fire may be eternal, and so will suffer less.
“Hey
there! Officers!"
At
the call, two wooden officers appeared, dressed like Klansmen, with queer hats
on their heads and swords in their hands.
The
Director yelled at them in a hoarse voice: "Take Punch, tie him, and throw
him on the fire. I want my lamb well done!"
Think
how poor Punch felt! He was so scared that his legs doubled up under him and he
fell to the floor.
Pierrot,
at that heartbreaking sight, threw himself at the feet of the Director and,
weeping bitterly, asked in a pitiful voice which could scarcely be heard:
"Have
mercy, I beg of you, for pity’s sake!"
“Well,
what do you want from me now, Marionette?"
"I
beg for mercy for my poor friend, Punch, who has never done the least harm in
his life."
"No
harm? Did he not betray you at my bidding? There is no mercy here, Pierrot. I
have spared you. Punch must burn in your place. I am hungry and my dinner must
be cooked."
"In
that case," said Pierrot proudly, as he stood up and flung away his velvet
cap, "in that case, my duty is clear. Come, officers! Tie me up and throw
me on those flames. No, it is not fair for poor Punch, a true friend, to die in
my place!"
These
brave words made all the other Marionettes cry. Even the officers, who were
made of wood also, cried like two babies. Even the Director opened wide his
arms and said to Pierrot: "You are a brave boy! Come to my arms and kiss
me where the sun don’t shine!"
Pierrot
ran to him and scurrying like a squirrel up the long black beard, he gave the
Director a loving kiss on his upper lip, beneath his naturally long nose.