1. The Pepperoni Prince
YOWWWWTTTCHH!" He said when
the golf ball whacked him in the skull. "For the love of God. I'm keepin'
it this time!" he shouted outside his door.
"Just toss me the damn ball," a voice said, "but out the
other side this time. Please."
Demanding little shits. He poked his head out the door, but not too
far, so as not to be scalped by the whirling death blade. It normally went very
slowly, about ten rotations per minute, as it was driven by a 1/10,000
horsepower motor, but on days when the wind picked up, sometimes it whirled
like the propeller on a helicopter.
"You stupid kids! Why I oughtta..." Oughtta what? What
was he going to do? Kick their asses? The kid that was holding the putter was a
good five-foot-ten, and he was three-foot-something, depending on footwear
choices, and anyway, what business is it of yours? He may have been short, but
he was burly. He could whoop the other dwarfs' asses if he was so inclined.
Well, some of them, anyway. But all this kid had to do was kick him and he
would be punted like a football in that homecoming game your high school lost
against their rivals, so you ran home crying to your mom, and she told you to get
out there and get laid like any normal sixteen-year-old boy who didn't have
severe acne. Your mom was an all right lady.
"What are you gonna do?" the kid asked. Ignorant
little shit.
"I'm keeping your ball, you little ingrate!" he snarled, and
added it to the golf ball jar that was filling up quite nicely this season.
"Why, you..." the kid charged the ten-foot windmill, but it's
not like he could do much, since he couldn't fit in the four-inch high doorway.
(Neither could any of the dwarfs; that's why there was a secret door around the
side.)
The kid looked in, careful not to get his nose nicked by the twirling
blade. The dwarf stuck his tongue out.
"Arrggh," the kid said in frustration.
"What are you gonna do?" the dwarf asked.
"I'm gonna go get another ball," he answered.
"Oh, no you're not," the dwarf said as he picked up the phone
that tied in directly with the front desk. "Hello? Gladys? Yeah, don't
give any balls to the bratty kid that's gonna come up there and ask for balls.
What's that? Beans? Sweet. What kind? Bush's Grillin' Beans? Of course I do.
What's that? Oh yeah, Miller Lite is fine. Au Renoir." He loved
speaking French when he could. One thing he loved more than the French language
was beans and beer. Of course, they gave him really bad gas, but what didn't?
He was the gassiest dwarf he knew. That's how come Farty Dwarf got to live in
the windmill. It was airy enough, and the propeller on the front acted like a
fan to get the stench out when necessary. Sure, it wasn't as posh as the lighthouse
replica that Larry got to stay in, but it was nice enough. This was a fun place
to work and a swell place to live. Farty and six of his friends worked and
resided on the premises. He did general maintenance, like painting, diving for
stray balls in the water traps, and leaf blowing. He loved it all, but the leaf
blowing was a pain until he finally got the hang of it. You see, he just wasn't
very good at it. The blower was as long as he was tall, and whenever he turned
it on it would shoot him up in the air like an untied balloon spinning around
the room. It was fun to watch, but kind of aggravating to be a part of. He tried a rake, but again, too tall for him.
It wasn't until he realized that he had his greatest asset attached to him. He
soon learned that if he dropped his drawers (he could only do this after hours,
of course) and aimed his gas in the right direction, he could blow the leaves
clear across the grounds.
"Go back to Mordor, you midget!" the young kid shouted.
Seriously? He was still here?
"I'm not a Hobbit, you dumb little twerp. Why don't you go back to
the whorehouse and get your daddy. Your mom's looking for him."
"My dad's dead!" the boy shouted, and stormed off.
"Whatever," Farty muttered to himself and tossed the ball out
the back door. It ricocheted off the back wall, off the rock, and into the cup.
"Hole in one, kid!" he yelled out the front door. The boy
didn't answer. He risked a glance out the terror hole that was his door and saw
the kid sitting on the bench and crying. Farty sighed. Time to do some patching
up. He went out the side door, letting it slam shut. He waddled up to the boy.
What a pathetic sight this was. There he was, sitting on the bench, his head in
his hands, his girlfriend standing there twirling the end of her putter on the
turf like she was unsure what to do.
"There there, little guy," he said to the boy. Poor choice of
words, but it was out now, wasn't it? "I'm sorry about the attitude."
"Hey, come on. Move onto the next hole," a man yelled behind
them.
"Give us a minute, wouldja?" Farty yelled back. He turned
back to the boy. "Really, I am sorry. I was just woken up from my
nap by getting pegged by your golf ball in the head. I didn't know your daddy
died."
He got no response from the boy. Just more tears.
"How did he die?" the dwarf asked.
The boy wouldn't answer. Again, more tears. So the girl answered for
him. "He killed him."
"Let me guess. He tripped over you as he was going down a flight
of stairs?"
The boy shook his head.
"He tripped over you as he
was coming up a flight of stairs?"
The boy shook his head.
"Tractor accident?"
Head shake.
"Car wash?"
Head shake.
"Marinara sauce?"
Head shake.
"I give up. What was it?"
The voice shouted from behind them: "Can we at least play
through?"
Farty had had enough with this dude. He tromped his way over to the man
and said, "No. You cannot play through. Give us a goddamned minute!"
Suddenly, the man had his hands around Farty's waist. He threw him up
in the air, and when he came down, he met with the man's foot, and he flew
across the fairway like a football, landing in the pool down below.
"That's it!" Farty said when his head popped up above the
water. He climbed out of the pool and ran toward the man. It was always a funny
sight to see a dwarf run, and it got the boy laughing.
The dwarf turned his back toward the man, dropped his pants, and let
one fly. The gust of putrid wind was enough to send the man flipping across the
green like a weightless tumbleweed. This caused the boy to laugh even harder.
It was good to hear this sound. Much better than that crying noise he was
making earlier.
"You like that?" asked Farty, pulling his pants up. He did a
funny little dance and a couple cartwheels, as it was always funny to see
dwarfs doing cartwheels. The boy ceased his laughter, however, and his
expression turned sour. He turned away from Farty and vomited.
"It's the smell, isn't it?" asked Farty.
"It's terrible," the boy said. "How can you manage to
stink up the entire outdoors?"
"That's why they call me Farty. Anyway, you got a minute? I know
something that will cheer you up. Wanna go meet Snow White?"
"Snow White?" the boy asked.
"Yeah. She runs the joint. You can meet her if you want. She's the
most beautiful woman on the face of the earth. Although she is a little dumb."
"Nah. I've been to Disney. I've met her. Wasn't too
impressed."
"That wasn't the real Snow White. She wouldn't be caught dead
working for a bunch of corporate fat cats like Disney."
"So she runs a mini-golf course instead?"
"Not just any mini-golf course. This is the Bad Apple Miniature
Golf Slash Action Fun Park. There are three of these franchises, and she runs
them all."
"If she's so dumb, how can
she be smart enough to run three of these?"
"Well, it's really her dad that ran it. He was known as the
Mattress King of the Bronx, but he was also a fairly good golfer. He actually
played with Jack Nicklaus and Tiger Woods. Was pretty good, too, although he
really sucked at mini-golf. Snow White
just kinda stands there and looks pretty and collects a paycheck."
"The Mattress King, huh? Boy, I sure know what that's like, having
to live up to a legacy with a king for your dad. My dad was the Pepperoni King
of Jersey."
"The Pepperoni King of Jersey? I've heard of him! Best pepperoni
in the state! Boy, what I wouldn't give to have a king for a dad.
"Nah. Truth is, I couldn't stand him. Nothing I did was ever good
enough for him. I tried to make good pepperoni, you know, make him proud and
stuff? But no. Pepperoni too spicy. Pepperoni too sweet. Pepperoni not wrapped
tight enough. Everything with him was so serious. I was always disappointing
him with the pepperoni. He couldn't even see the humor in being friggin'
Pepperoni King. Anyway, yes, I'm the Pepperoni King's son."
"Then that makes you..."
"The Pepperoni Prince."
"But since your dad's passed on, why aren't you the new
king?"
"Oh, I will be soon enough. It's not like the old days, when all
you had to do was have your father die and you became king. Nowadays, you have
to wait for the lawyers to settle all the legal crap. Shouldn't be long now,
though. To tell you the truth, I really don't care much about titles."
"Nonsense. That's something to be proud of. At least you're some
kind of royalty. Probably beats living in a miniature windmill and blowing leaves
around with your ass. Anyway, it's dinner time. You wanna come meet the rest of
the crew?"
"I'd love to!" the Prince said. "Whadda ya say?" he
asked his girlfriend, who, Farty just noticed, was quite pretty.
"Nah. I better be heading home. I've seen enough. You have fun
with your little friends."
"You sure?" Farty asked. "You're gonna be missing out on
some fine baked beans and dogs."
"Baked beans?" she said. "Yuck. No thanks." She
gave her boyfriend a nice long kiss, for they were very much in love, and
headed out of the park. "See ya, Pep."
"Bye bun-bun."
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