It was hat season.
No one ever knew when it would come, it just would. Sometimes there would be to many hats, and so the queen would cut off more heads to house the hats. Sometimes the queen cut off to many heads, so more hats were made to warm them.
Hats, hats, hats.
So many hats.
They all whispered when card number four, the one that was going to be a heart but was dropped on his head and became a short little club, ran to and from the terrible room, his short beefy arms filled with hats of all sizes and shapes, all ready to be used for the heads.
Because the only use for a hat in Wonderland was to keep bad heads warm.
It had been like this for awhile. Ever since that man, that person, that thing had came and had his head cut off and put back on like a patchwork doll, hat season had become popular with the great and wonderful and terrible queen. She laughed, quietly of course, when it was time for more hats, time for them to warm heads, time for them to be the only friends of poor, poor heads.
Hat season, of course, was always the best season.
And that poor card number four, not the short little club number four but the other number four, with odd colored spades, that was stationed to announce hat season, would come either from the queen or from the terrible room, to one of the opposite, to announce with his high reedy voice, the inevitable.
"It has began! Hat season, is here!"
The queen always smiled, the smile that never was seen but felt, felt as she tightened her grip on her staff of hearts, tightened to shatter it to a million, million pieces.
Hat season was fun for her, for more heads were to be cut off.
But when that poor card number four, the one of spades, do keep up, went to the terrible room, he trembled so much his helmet would shatter on top of his head and fall to shiny little pieces on the floor. And with a soft whisper, he'd state as close to the door as he could the same old words.
"It is time. Hat season has started."
And the man, the person, that thing would look up. He would look up from his frantic stitching and starching, his hands cut sometimes, sometimes not, a hat on his head but sometimes not, and would look at the poor card number four, the one of spades.
He would take off his glasses, but sometimes they were already off, and look at him carefully.
"Is it now," he'd state in that calm, so very calm voice of his that echoed off the terrible room's walls. "When did this happen?"
"Today sir, this morning," the card number four, the one of spades, would start, before freezing when the man, the person, that thing waved his hand tiredly.
"Wonderland has no morning. Clean cup, clean cup! Always tea time, never enough tea."
And then he'd look at the card number four, the one of spades, and smile.
And then, the man, the person, that thing, would laugh.
It stretched and pulled and yanked and scratched, it died and lived and burned and drowned. It was happy and sad and angry and everything else.
It was the laugh of a man, a person, that thing, and it always would be.
"Hat season, hat season," he'd laugh so hard, tears pouring down his face so hard that the poor dormice that often nibbled on the hats raced around to fill tea cups to not cause a flood. "Why is always hat season. Why? Why, why, why? WHY IS A RAVEN LIKE A WRITING DESK!"
And then, he'd start throwing hats. The poor card number four, the one of spades, would stand there, the hats bouncing off his head, since his helmet had shattered and could no longer protect him.
"TELL ME YOUR ANSWER, CARD MAN. No man, sad man, silly man, disgusting man."
He'd scream and yell and holler, pound his hands into the ground, cry and laugh and cry some more, fight army's on top of stacks of boxes, before going to sleep and waking up again, staring at the ceiling.
"Hat season, is it," he whispered to the card number four, the one of spades, who endured everything this man, this person, that thing threw at him.
"Yes. Hat season indeed."
The man, the person, that thing sat up, his eyes wide like a child, at least a hat or two oddly perched on his head at his point, and he'd smile.
"Take them. Take them all."
He'd sit back down, and would be slower at his work at first as the short little card number four, the club one of course, started to run in and out and grabbing hats for hat season.
Because hat season was the best season.
"Do you know why it's always hat season," the man, the person, that thing would ask when he felt particularly chipper, whenever that could be. "Do you know why it's time for hats."
And the card number four, the one of spades, would shrug his shoulders, hoping to be gone.
"No, I do not, Mad Hatter."
And the man, the person, that thing would cry one tear.
"Because none of them work," he would scream, whisper, whatever he felt, tugging on a ribbon on a hat or maybe stitching a seam. "None of them ever work."
And with startling accuracy, he'd hit the wall above the card number four, the one of spades, with to sharp scissors, embedding them into the wall, not even glancing away from his work.
"And do not call me Mad Hatter. My name is Jefferson," and that man, that person, that thing would go back to making hats, working forever and ever, always working, because they never worked.
Because the hat's never worked.