Thistle Do Nicely - a THISTLE story for Fairy Tale Friday, 9th January 2015
Balls MacReady had the largest collection of thistles in the western world. And, were he to live in the southern, eastern or northern world, the largest collection in those as well.
Put simply, he had the largest collection of thistles in the world. He would walk o'er the Scottish moors, clad only in a kilt, and at the end of the day he would remove all the specimens that had attached themselves to his scrotum (sometimes as many as eighty) and place them in ornate display cases in his study, which was now full to bursting with thistles old, new, thin, fat, tall, small and withered.
Put simply, he had the largest collection of thistles in the world. He would walk o'er the Scottish moors, clad only in a kilt, and at the end of the day he would remove all the specimens that had attached themselves to his scrotum (sometimes as many as eighty) and place them in ornate display cases in his study, which was now full to bursting with thistles old, new, thin, fat, tall, small and withered.
MacReady was sitting amongst his precious collection one day, when he heard a knock at the door.
"Come in," he wheezed, warily. He very rarely received visitors…
There was the sound of heavy boots clumping down the hallway, then there in the doorframe of his study stood an imposing sight. And man.
Easily seven foot tall, with a dirty trench coat reaching down to the floor, soiled fedora and even soilier beard, and a necklace of exotic leaves to top it all off, the man was a stone's throw from MacReady's meek and fragile sensibilities. If that stone happened to be a meteorite. He leered down at MacReady (not in a frightening way, it was more as though leering was all he knew how to do) and spoke in a guttural drawl:
"Where is it?"
"Where’s what?" said MacReady, in his amiable Morningside burr.
"You know what," said the stranger, turning ugly(er).
MacReady didn't need asking thrice. He slid his swivel chair over to a filing cabinet, kept separate from the ostentatious display cases, and thumbed through until he came to a section labelled "Thistellaneous", from whence he drew a bizarre specimen. A thistle with bright crimson heads, and two dozen times as many thorns as was normal, each of them tapering into venomous-looking barbs. And a beak. He handed it tremulously over for examination. The stranger grinned, showing a bevy of golden teeth.
"How much?" he said.
MacReady's face fell, almost to his navel.
"It's not for sale, sir," he whispered.
"Sentimental are we?" said the stranger.
"No, would that it were so," said MacReady, "It would be remiss of me to sell such an item. It is possessed of a great and destructive power, and were it to fall into the wrong hands-"
The stranger held up a gnarled and suitably wrong-looking hand to silence him. He took a bag of gold from his voluminous trenchcoat, and replaced it with MacReady's rare vegetable, then he plonked down the incredibly large fortune on MacReady's desk and turned to go.
As he was halfway down the corridor MacReady stood up and yelled after him "Heed me, you fool! HEED ME!"
The stranger did not heed him. He kept the mutant thistle in a cube of Lucite, occupying pride of place on his mantel, and lived his life without incident.
Because it was a thistle.
"Come in," he wheezed, warily. He very rarely received visitors…
There was the sound of heavy boots clumping down the hallway, then there in the doorframe of his study stood an imposing sight. And man.
Easily seven foot tall, with a dirty trench coat reaching down to the floor, soiled fedora and even soilier beard, and a necklace of exotic leaves to top it all off, the man was a stone's throw from MacReady's meek and fragile sensibilities. If that stone happened to be a meteorite. He leered down at MacReady (not in a frightening way, it was more as though leering was all he knew how to do) and spoke in a guttural drawl:
"Where is it?"
"Where’s what?" said MacReady, in his amiable Morningside burr.
"You know what," said the stranger, turning ugly(er).
MacReady didn't need asking thrice. He slid his swivel chair over to a filing cabinet, kept separate from the ostentatious display cases, and thumbed through until he came to a section labelled "Thistellaneous", from whence he drew a bizarre specimen. A thistle with bright crimson heads, and two dozen times as many thorns as was normal, each of them tapering into venomous-looking barbs. And a beak. He handed it tremulously over for examination. The stranger grinned, showing a bevy of golden teeth.
"How much?" he said.
MacReady's face fell, almost to his navel.
"It's not for sale, sir," he whispered.
"Sentimental are we?" said the stranger.
"No, would that it were so," said MacReady, "It would be remiss of me to sell such an item. It is possessed of a great and destructive power, and were it to fall into the wrong hands-"
The stranger held up a gnarled and suitably wrong-looking hand to silence him. He took a bag of gold from his voluminous trenchcoat, and replaced it with MacReady's rare vegetable, then he plonked down the incredibly large fortune on MacReady's desk and turned to go.
As he was halfway down the corridor MacReady stood up and yelled after him "Heed me, you fool! HEED ME!"
The stranger did not heed him. He kept the mutant thistle in a cube of Lucite, occupying pride of place on his mantel, and lived his life without incident.
Because it was a thistle.
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