I do not own Supernatural or Star Trek 2009.
Aaand here's little Jim Kirk's defense of someone who suffers a cruel prank. :D
Jimmy Kirk was trying to outgrow his nickname. Jim Kirk sounded so much better. It was a name a kid could use when he was an intergalactic superhero, a Starfleet captain, a firefighter, something other than a small, eight-and-three-quarters Iowa farm boy.
No matter how hard he reminded her though, old Mrs. Potts couldn't seem to make the changeover. Mrs. Potts was the town widow, clucked the gossipy biddies down by the general store, somehow managing to make widow sound like a dirty word.
Jimmy didn't much care what she was. Mrs. Potts always had time to listen to Jim's chatter, she gave good advice and said advice usually had a home-baked cookie to go with it. He helped her with her gardens and cheerfully permitted only Mrs. Potts to call him Jimmy.
And Mrs. Potts always had six trays of muffins, eight dozen cookies and ten loaves of beautiful raisin bread to take to farmer's market on Saturday mornings. Her baking was famous.
Jimmy wasn't the only boy with wide, shining, cookie-loving eyes for Mrs. Potts, but she chose her free Saturday treats with discretion. If a boy had been unusually mischievous or a little too cruel in his play, he got a sorrowful head shake and had to walk away empty-handed until next week.
Tom and his two friends Derek and Wilbur had not had a Mrs. Potts cookie for three weeks. They picked fights with girls, drove their teacher to distraction and were generally nuisances. When Mrs. Potts sent them away for the fourth week in a row, they decided enough was enough.
Derek's father raised pigs – lovely, fat, wild pigs that squealed and fought and mashed and stamped in their trailer while Derek's father sold them at auction. Somehow, that Saturday, the pins holding the trailer shut slipped loose and the ramp smacked the ground with a glorious crash, sending pigs all through the farmer's market and right over Mrs. Potts' carefully whitewashed bakery stand.
The stand was ruined and Mrs. Potts suffered a sprained ankle. Though almost everyone in town was pretty sure they knew the culprits, there was no evidence and the boys vehemently denied any wrongdoing.
So the nasty little trio strutted around town free as birds.
It made Jimmy – Jim – Kirk very angry.
He began to plot.
Derek was the first to begin telling wild, strange stories. He said he was seeing things, that there was really a muffin ghost in his closet and something resembling a mouldy cupcake followed him home at night, bobbing in mid-air. He took to carrying a flashlight to bed and refused to go out after dark.
Wilbur claimed he had seen floating, glowing cookies in the library stacks. Then he insisted he had encountered an avalanche of evil brownies and the smell of rotting chocolate clung to the kid. No matter what his mother did, the stench took more than a week to go away.
Tom waited in terror for it, whatever it was, to begin.
It didn't.
His friends suspected him. Dissension was sown. Insults thrown. Punches followed.
And all the while Jimmy – Jim – Kirk carefully, helpfully, innocently put together a new foldable stand for Mrs. Potts under her armchair supervision and a little assistance from the next door neighbour.
Soon none of the boys were talking to each other and they wouldn't walk home at night without an adult. Derek came up with the bright idea of apologizing to Mrs. Potts in an attempt to appease the spirits of baked goods passed on to the golden oven in the sky.
He and Wilbur did so in their Sunday best, polite and contrite as anything. Mrs. Potts of course, was gracious and forgiving. There was also a marked improvement in the two boys' behaviour towards others.
Tom though was convinced he was the injured party and began to put on martyr's airs.
The prankster decided to pull out all the stops.
Tom was bravely (tremblingly) walking home one fine October night just as dusk was falling when he heard the clip clop of horse's hooves behind him.
Spinning around, he spotted Jenkins' big black mare trotting towards him at a good rate.
Tom hated horses. He was afraid of them. Especially Jenkins' big mare. So he swallowed hard and carried on, trying to ignore the horse coming up behind him.
He took one last glance over his shoulder when he smelled the strange aroma of gingerbread floating past him.
Little Tom Berry went dead white with terror and bolted down the dirt road at warp ten.
When he got home, he could only babble helplessly about the headless, cackling, moving gingerbread man, bedaubed in blood-red icing, riding Jenkins' mare down the road at night while carrying its own head, huge gumdrop eyes glowing at him malevolently with a nasty licorice grin.
He apologized to Mrs. Potts the next day.
Oddly enough, Jimmy – Jim – Kirk smelled like gingerbread for a few days afterwards, almost as if he had somehow been bathing in gingerbread.
Strange, isn't it?
