Troy: Gone Rum VII

Anarion Tari Culnama

One day in Troy, Paris was strolling along, just strolling, his hands behind him, humming a happy tune. He had nothing in particular that he wanted to do, so he decided that he would compose a song. He even decided that his song would have words! He began to sing:

"There are stinky little people who do stinky little things, who stick their stinky noses into matters of the king! Oh, Hector is busted! There are those who can't be trusted!"

"What was that?" asked Hector, who had been playing a game of Go Fish with himself over at the central mirror fountain. He had been complaining a great deal lately that, since the war was over, there was nothing to do and no one with which to fight. He was rather competitive, you see.

"Do you want me?" continued Hector. "You said my name. Make it fast, I'm winning."

"Uh, no," said Paris, slightly nauseated at the thought of Hector listening in on his "stinky little song".

"Good," said Hector, fingering a jewel on his ornate skirt. "Ok, my turn." He peered at his cards.

"I need a narwhal," he said. Then, he got up and went over to a stack of cards that were sitting a ways away on the fountain ledge.

"Keep your skirt on, Hector!" said Hector. "I'm looking. Nope, no narwhal. Got any sea-serpents?" Then, Hector resumed his first position and looked at his cards. His face fell as he pulled a card out of his hand.

"Here you go," he said, handing the card to himself.

Elsewhere in the palace, Helen was busy scheming.

"Paris is still too girly," she said to her servant. "Something must be done. Now that he's gotten over his attachment to Reebok, that threat doesn't work anymore! He shaved! I could kill him!" Her characteristic placidness flew out the window as she fell into a wild rage. When she was finished venting her anger, she smoothed her hair back down, while the servant cleaned up all of the shattered ceramic objects and such.

"I've got it!" cried Helen suddenly. "Where is that box?" She rummaged through a myriad of cupboards before finally locating it. Then, she opened it and pulled out an odd object. It was a stick-on French mustache.

"I want facial hair, I get it," she stated proudly. "I don't care if it's fake! Uh, servant, summon Paris without delay! If he will not come, tell him that I will see to it that he-" she thought a moment, "that he gets eaten up in a wild gopher accident. That should terrify him! Off with you!"

Paris soon received the message. He was also able to extract a bit of additional information from the servant as to why Helen wanted him.

"Hmm…" mused Paris. "I'll wager that she liked Menelaus because of his facial hair. He did have plenty of it. He, he, he, I'll bet he used to tickle her with it on a regular basis. And then, sometimes, food would get caught in it and she would probably eat it!" Paris began to snigger at the thought, but stopped only when an idea hit him- literally. He looked down and inspected what had struck him. A checkerboard?

"Sorry, Paris," said Hector, "I was cheating again, so I had to teach myself a lesson. I threw the game."

"I see that," said Paris. "Hey, below!"

"What," said Hector, rather annoyed, "are you talking about? Are you insane?"

"No," replied Paris, "I just felt like saying it. What I really wanted to ask you is, 'Do you still have that Santa Clause beard?'"

"Who's Santa Clause?" asked Hector.

"I don't know," answered Paris. "But do you have it?"

"Yes."

"Can I borrow it?"

"Helen, I'm home!" called Paris sweetly. Helen egressed from the room and froze stock still in her tracks.

"Do you like my beard?" asked Paris. It didn't look real at all. It was the fakest beard there ever was. And it was ugly. Real ugly.

"Burn it!" hissed Helen fervently. "It must die."

"Me?" squeaked Paris in surprise.

"No, the beard," said Helen. She pulled out a flame thrower from somewhere and aimed it at Paris' face.

"Ho, ho, ho!" coughed Paris weakly. "Merry, cough/wheeze, Christmas!" His face was coal black, his eyebrows and eyelashes burnt, and his hair was smoking like burning plastic. At least, Helen didn't insist upon his growing facial hair for quite some time after that.

Finis