The Ballad of Brucie B.
Chapter 1
CHUNK! The axe came down upon the wood round, splitting it in whole. That is to say: it didn’t split. Brucie B. wasn’t very strong. He pulled on the axe attempting to dislodge it, but it was happily lodged in its cozy new wood lodge. Brucie’s hands slipped off the handle and he toppled over backwards, crashing into the vegetable garden. His level of coordination matched his strength.
SPLORSH! Brucie fell right into the tomatoes. He felt the saucy, wet pulp soaking into his striped yellow and black shirt. “Aw chut… Mama’s gon’ shave my bee-hind fer this…” Sitting up, Brucie planted his hand on another plant with a wet smush. He looked to see his palm pressed into a freshly broken tomato. “Fer foff sake…” He stood up slowly, making sure not to step on anoth— He stepped on another tomato.
Brucie sighed as he surveyed the damage. All but half a dozen tomatoes left on the left. Only one tomato remained on the right—but something seemed off with that one. Brucie crouched down to look at the quivering red fruit. Is that a face…? It slowly opened its eyes, like a newborn seeing the world for the first time, only this newborn’s first sight is some guy dressed like a bee, staring straight back at it. Its eyes began to bulge, as if it was inflating with gaseous terror, finally escaping with a little fart and a bloodcurdling shriek. Brucie cried out and fell backward onto his bee-bum. What in the Shish? That ain’t no ord’nary tomater… He looked up just in time to see the tomato vault over the fence with a front-flip and run off into the distance carried by short, viney legs. Brucie felt smashed tomatoes seeping through his striped pants.
Brucie salvaged what he could of the tomatoes, scraping the red mash off of his clothes into a clean bucket. At least, he thought it was clean—reasonably clean at best. He walked inside, in the side door to see the side-eye of his mother. She had a large bowl of long, noodley noodles ready to cook. “Sounded like yer chores were pretty excitin’ what with all the screamin’ you were doin’ out there,” she stated sarcastically. “Where’s the wood? We need t’ get supper goin’ soon.” Brucie was still dazed, replaying in his head that freakish fence-flipping tomato he saw moments before.
“Brucifer! I said ‘where’s the wood’!” She snapped her fingers at him, snapping him back to the present with no wood to present. “Sorry, Mama. I’ll go grab it.” He plopped the bucket of tomato remnants onto the counter and went back outside. Brucie’s mother looked into the bucket with a furrowed brow under her beecap. It was the same bucket she used earlier that day to feed the pyigs. KATHUD! She saw Brucie out the kitchen window failing to chop wood once again. If it wasn’t so inconvenient, she might find it endearing.
Brucie walked back inside a few minutes later carrying an armful of splintered wood, a record amount of it not being embedded in his face. Another record was the dissonance between his mother’s disappointed body language and gentle tone of voice. “What ‘m I gonna do with you, buzzter?” She offloaded his hackjob stack into the wood stove. With a slight smile, she asked, “Are ya ready to try makin’ this spaghetti again?” “Ya better bee-leeb I am!” Yet another record: forced enthusiasm.
Lou Gumble wanted her son Brucie to be a spaghetti chef like her late brother, Brucie’s uncle Yomar who was cursed by a cranky old turtle who turned him to stone. Apparently, turtles don’t like being tossed around like sports eggs. Thankfully, the turtle was generous enough to let Yomar strike a pose before getting petrified. Lou thought her brother made an excellent lawn ornament. She best expressed her grief through outdoor decor.
Brucie had no interest in his mother’s proposed profession of professional pasta preparation. He instead preferred to spend most of his free time learning from Master Oldeedlo, a local Ato mystic. The Ato were ancient beings who first inhabited and shaped the nine worlds with their majick. Brucie B. was fascinated by the old stories the old one told. Oldeedlo was the only Ato still left in Spank Hill; the others had either passed on from merging sickness or were called away. Oldeedlo was neither sickened nor summoned—just secluded.
Further fueling Oldeedlo’s isolation, most of the inhabitants of Spank Hill avoided the weird old man in his weird old house by that weird old tree by Weirdo Rock. But not Brucie B. No, Brucie brought sloppy bags full of saucy homemade spaghetti to trade for Oldeedlo’s ramblings, all of which Oldeedlo would have happily shared for free.
The wise one spoke of something called Sus; it is the essence of reality itself, flowing from nine astral beings called Shish. Brucie loved hearing stories of ancient histories and supreme beings since-died, but he was most captivated by the things Oldeedlo could do with majick.
The old man could twist his beard to stir his tea, tap-tap his foot to summon his ottoman—he could even find the lost remote for his tellavision, which is impressive on its own, but even more so since Oldeedlo was blind. The tellavision, however, did not need a remote anymore because the only visions it would tell-a were those of the quartet of flatulating wisps who moved into it and now only whispered jokes of the most juvenile degree. No, these days, the remote was for stirring his tea. Brucie would never drink any of Oldeedlo’s remo-tea because it smelled like sour battery water.
It was a Doofday, the second day of the week, so that meant Brucie was tasked with going into town for wheats and meats (essential ingreets for his mom’s spageets). He kissed his mama’s soft, round cheek, grabbed a generous handful of dollas from their savings box, and took off into town for his chore. This was usually an all day outing because he and his mama lived on the edge of their village and it took Brucie 20 whole minutes to meander to market, another 10 to procure the parentally promised produce, and the rest of the day to dawdle at Oldeedlo’s diminutive domicile.
Brucie’s day was decided. But, honestly, how enjoyable is a story with expected outcomes?