By Selah Ex Animo
Mr. and Mrs. Scott were homely, pastoral-like people. They owned a homely, pastoral-like nursery, sold homely, pastoral-like plants, fertilizers and other gardening implements—the exception being Freddy's Fantastic Cow Manure, imported all the way from Termina—and dealt mostly with homely, pastoral-like people. So it was a strange, unexpected thing when one sultry summer's day, as the couple lounged outside on the porch of their store, a silver Lamborghini, gleaming from a century's worth of constant washing, pulled into the dusty lot and came to a screeching halt before the dilapidated, ivy enshrouded building. Mr. and Mrs. Scott started, surprised. They could see the faces of four children squashed up against the sparkling windows, contorted in anguish. Mrs. Scott frowned.
"Now who could that be?" she murmured.
"Must be some hotshot from the city," her husband replied in a low mutter, leaning forward in his rickety rocking chair to squint at the newcomer. "I've been livin' here for sixty-somethin' years an' never knew nobody that managed ta rake up enough money ta buy somethin' the likes o' that."
And as if affirming the statement, a beat-up pick-up truck from the 1940s roared past the nursery in a melange of thick black smoke and ear-shattering backfiring sounds that echoed down the street.
"See that?" Mr. Scott said, gesturing after the ratty vehicle. "Now that's a good ole classic; the real deal, the real McCoy! Kids these days are wastin' their money on those fancy shmancy high-falutin' automobiles that break down in a second—what they need are vehicles from the good ole days, like that one—it'll last forever..."
Mrs. Scott only sighed.
They could see driver of the Lamborghini struggling to unbuckle his seatbelt, and at one point he yelled, "GET OFF ME YOU EVIL REINCARNATION OF SATAN—!" The children had all turned to stare, and through the open passenger window they heard a little boy say, "What's the matter Mr. Marth? Can't get your seatbelt off? Ha ha ha ha..." The laughs of the other children joined with his and through the darkened windows the couple could see them shaking with laughter. The driver, who still hadn't managed to unfasten the seatbelt, twisted around in his seat and said something. The children immediately stopped laughing.
The man finally freed himself of the restraints of the seatbelt and got out of the car, grumbling. "This is the last time I let Peach manipulate me like that—dragging you four brats all over Nintendoland—and then having to stop by this ratty dump for fertilizer—Popo, what is wrong with you?"
"There's a gnat on the window!" the boy who'd first spoken squealed in an unnaturally high voice.
"Oh be a man Popo!" the voice of a little girl snarled. Her bobbing head could be seen, traversing to the front of the car.
"Nana, sit back down this instant," Mr. Marth commanded, then brushed at the window. "There, the gnat's all gone. Now you four, sit tight—YOUNG LINK, GET YOUR DIRTY HANDS OFF THAT SUIT!—and I'll be right back. I just have to get some fertilizer. Ness, you watch them and make sure they don't act up."
"Why is Ness in charge?" a little boy whined.
"Because he's thirteen, mature and has a bat with which to crack over your inept skull should you act any stupider than you already are Young Link," Marth replied calmly. Then, shutting the door, he started away from the car.
"I'll tell my brother on you!" the youth Young Link screamed. "I'll shred your Medieval Man magazine and feed it to Pichu; I'll put mud in your hairspray; I'll break your hand mirror—"
Mr. and Mrs. Scott stood as Mr. Marth approached them. He was a tall, good-looking man, impeccably dressed in a crisp black suit, crisp black shoes and a crisp black expression. His hair was a shocking blue and meticulously combed. Mr. Scott eyed him approvingly, then caught sight of the tiara.
"What the—?" he gasped.
"Hey Marth!" one of the youth screamed from the car suddenly. "You forgot to take off your tiara!"
The boy Popo began to laugh. "Ahhahahaha—hey, what's that buzzing? AAAAAAHHHHHH!! WASP!! AAAAAAHHHHHH!"
The car began to shake, and Mr. and Mrs. Scott could see Popo performing Tarzan-like manoeuvres as he sought to escape the wasp, which flitted lazily outside.
Marth had clenched his fists at the mention of the small golden tiara resting comfortably in his sapphire locks, but immediately unclenched them upon approaching the Scotts and forced a smile. "Hello—" he began.
"Is that a tiara in your head boy?" Mr. Scott interrupted, peering at his customer's head.
Marth's smile twitched and his fists clenched again.
"By Pixel, what's with kids these days?" Mr. Scott continued, turning to his wife. "Boys wearin' tiaras like little girls—it ain' right I tell ya!"
"Sylvester..." Mrs. Scott said quietly as Marth's smile got tighter.
Mr. Scott turned back toward his customer. "Well then, what'cha need?" he asked. There was a sudden scream from the Lamborghini and he looked up. "That rabble yours?" he asked.
Marth's smile tightened further. "No," he said with icy cordiality. "I'm merely... babysitting them."
Mr. Scott glanced at him. "Well then, bring 'em in!" he said. "I don't think their parents would appreciate them bein' left in this heat!"
Marth took a few deep breaths, then replied slowly, "I'm just here for some fertilizer. It shouldn't take long—"
"Oh no, I agree; you should bring them in," Mrs. Scott piped up suddenly, siding with her husband—she liked children (whereas he only wanted some entertainment...). "They'll be hot in there."
"I'm sure they'll be fine. I just need some fertilizer; I have plans—"
"And I'm sure those plans could be modified to suit them eh?" Mr. Scott cut in with a dry smile.
Marth was silent, the cold evil smile still fixated to his lips. Then, in a cloud of dust, he turned on his heel and strode back toward the car. The Scotts watched him rip open one of the doors and bark, "All right, I'm taking you brats in—get going, get going—I SAID LEAVE THE SUIT ALONE YOUNG LINK! You four had better be good or you'll answer to Master Hand—YOUNG LINK, I SWEAR ON MY GRAVE I'LL BASH THAT THICK SKULL OF YOURS IF YOU TOUCH MY SUIT WITH THOSE GREASY FINGERS AGAIN!!"
"Irate fellow," Mrs. Scott murmured.
"City slicker," her husband added. She frowned at him.
"But I wiped 'em on my tunic—" they heard Young Link bawling.
"Be a man," the little girl snarled again.
Marth was taking a few more deep breaths. After getting his slowly boiling temper under control he led the ragtag group toward the nursery porch. The Scotts eyed them—there were what appeared to be a pair of twins, one girl, one boy, whom they supposed was Nana and Popo, and who seemed about eight or nine years of age. Then there was an even smaller boy, stout and carrying a backpack, who looked about six or so, and who they assumed to be Young Link. And then there was a tall blonde boy, with long pointed ears, a green dress (Mr. Scott gasped in horror) and a pouty expression—this, they assumed, was Ness.
The five approached the Scotts, and Mr. Scott smiled. "All righty then, fertilizer you say?"
"Yes please," Marth said, sweeping to the front of the line. Mr. Scott nodded and turned toward the interior of the nursery; Marth followed, beckoning imperiously to the youth. They sullenly trotted after him.
"I hate nurseries," Mrs. Scott heard Popo mutter to Young Link. "There're bugs in them."
"There're bugs everywhere Popo," Young Link replied in a sardonic voice.
"Yeah, but nursery bugs are big, black, EVIL beetles with wings—and they come to kill."
"Mhmm."
"Ness..." Popo whined, failing to notice Mrs. Scott's eyes had widened unnaturally at the revelation of the short boy's true name, "you don't understand the danger we're in!"
"And I don't care to."
"Okay, so when you get stung and die—"
"POPO, GET A LIFE!" they heard Nana roar. Popo immediately shut his mouth.
The interior of the store was dark, dank and smelled of a hideous array of fertilizers, manure and other nursery things. Mr. Scott and Marth were standing by several monstrous stacks of bagged fertilizers. "So what brand d'ya need sonny?" Mr. Scott asked, bending over to examine a huge rip in one of the bags. "Confound it all, Amelia's cat's been in here. I swear, I catch that beast ripping my up store again I'll put a bullet through its head—" He suddenly remembered Marth and straightened quickly. "Oh uh... which brand did you say again?"
"I didn't name any brand."
"Oh—so which d'ya want?" He gestured to the towers of fertilizer and continued, "We've got Miracle Gro, Miracle Lawn, Scotts, Yoshi's, Schultz, Greenie..."
"Er..." Marth gestured vaguely. "Whatever makes your lawn look nice or whatever."
"Anything can make your lawn look nice sonny," Mr. Scott chuckled, then added under his breath, "hotshot city slicker."
Thankfully Marth hadn't heard. "Eh... let me make a call right quick," he said.
"'Kay then—phone's back there, in the office—"
"Oh, that's okay, I have a cell phone."
Mr. Scott's expression soured. "Oh."
He watched as his customer took an ant-sized excuse for a phone from his pocket, flipped open the cover and dialed a number. There was a tiny ringing sound, then,
"...?" said the person on the other line.
"Hello, it's me, Ma—Roy, do you think I care that you knew it was me already? Curse it all, I know you can read the caller I.D.! Like that's some spectacular feat... baka... Anyway, I was wondering if I could speak to Peach. Huh—wha—? ROY! I just need to speak to her! C'mon, don't be a fool! No, it's about the fertilizer—yeah, remember, she set me to get some? So, can I—? ROY! This has absolutely NOTHING to do with—shut up, I do NOT love her! I just need to ask her what brand fertilizer—I AM NOT LYING! ROY!"
Mr. Scott could hear cackling from the other line.
Marth looked livid. "Okay then," he hissed into the phone, "get somebody else on the line. Why? Because I can't stand talking to you! Zelda? Sure, I'll talk to her—ROY! Quit bringing that up! I swear on my grave, when I get back you'll pay for this—oh for sanity's sake just let me talk to someone else, please? I need to—huh? What? Roy? Oh, hi Link. Where's Roy again? Unconscious? Well the idiot deserved it... I'll have to thank Pichu when I get back... Hey, can I speak to Peach? I need the name of that fertilizer she wants... okay, I'll wait."
Meanwhile, the youth were huddled near the door, unwilling to step inside. Popo's face was contorted with utter horror and fear.
BZZZZZZ...
"AH!" he screamed, and squatting, hunched over.
"Like that's gonna help you," Nana muttered. "The bee'll just sting you in the back—"
"That's not highly comforting Nana," Ness said dryly.
Popo was still hunched and squatting, peering up fearfully. The source of the devilish buzz wasn't visible, and after a few moments he stood slowly, flinching and ducking. Nana gave a sigh of disgust and turned away.
"Well, just because you're not afraid—" Popo began.
BZZZZZZ.
Popo screamed and crouched beside Nana. She scowled down at his head.
"I refuse to play shield girl for you," she snarled, and grabbed a handful of his hair. "Get UP!" She wrenched him into a standing position, and he screamed again. Mrs. Scott, who had entered the store, looked over at them. Ness and Young Link turned to stare at a wall and whistle whereas Nana looked defiantly back. Popo nursed his head.
"I don't like it in here," he whispered.
BZZZZZZ went the invisible entity, rather close to his ear.
"AIEE!" he shrieked, and threw himself to the floor. Nana gave a sob, and the other two cracked up.
"Oh Popo—" Young Link began.
BZZZZZZ went the U.F.B in Young Link's ear.
"AIEE!" the boy screamed, and threw himself into a wall.
"LINK!" Marth roared.
"I thought that was the door," Young Link muttered, rubbing his sore face, which was flushed with pain and embarrassment. Ness was grinning broadly.
"See, now you know how I feel," said Popo from the floor with a small sob.
"POPO, GET UP OFF THAT FLOOR AND DUST YOURSELF! I WILL NOT HAVE DIRTY BODIES POLLUTING MY CAR!" Marth barked. Popo tried, but upon hearing a deafening BZZZZZ beside him, accompanied by a horrific glimpse of the big, black, evil body of the perpetrator, he began to roll across the floor screaming.
Mrs. Scott could see her husband was enjoying the entertainment immensely.
"Uh, we'd best go outside," Ness suggested with a hasty glance at Marth, who had lowered the phone from his ear and was staring at Popo with an expression halfway between shock and rage. "C'mon."
"Get up boy!" Nana growled, snatching her brother by the back of his shirt and dragging him out the door. The other two hastily retreated after her.
Marth was still staring after them with that same appalled expression. Mr. Scott looked at him, then down at the phone, from which he could hear someone shouting in a tiny shrill voice, "Hello? Hello? Hello?" Marth finally became aware of the voice and put the phone to his ear. "Yes?" he asked, his own tone shrill, almost hysterical. "Peach? Finally! Which fertilizer did you want again? Huh? WHAT? YOU CAN'T REMEMBER??!!"
Marth took the phone from his ear and turned to look up at the ceiling. Mr. Scott could see he was on the breaking point, and fighting against it. After a moment the former turned his gaze back to the stacks of fertilizer and said tensely, with a forced smile, "So eh, you don't care what fertilizer brand I get? Are you sure? I can read the labels to—okay, okay, if that's what you want... I'm warning you though, I bring home one and you don't like it, you're bringing it back yourself. What's the matter with me?" He chuckled cynically. "Well Peach, it isn't everyday a man goes out to buy a suit and is forced to drag along brats to the library, then afterwards pick up a load of dung—"
"Fertilizer," Mr. Scott corrected. Marth ignored him.
"No Peach, don't lie—you know you don't sympathise with me," he said comfortingly. "I just hope you're having a good day and that all my suffering is for the purpose of a better Peach—yes, yes, I know everyone needs to rest once in a while, but at the expense of another's sanity—I don't think so. What? You'll make cookies for us? So that we'll feel better?" He put a hand to his forehead.
"Okay then. All right... okay... doesn't matter which... got it... okay... bye." He turned off the phone, muttering all the while, "Cookies? To make us feel better? I know what'll make me feel better—a nice sledgehammer and permission to deal with those children personally... Okay sir." He gestured vaguely. "I'll take whichever one."
"The customer, being the lucky one, gets to choose," Mr. Scott replied dryly.
Marth groaned. "Great, just great..." he muttered. "Which one do you recommend?"
"Scotts."
"How much is it?"
"Fifty dollars."
Marth sighed deeply. "Don't like the price—what's the least expensive one?"
"Greenie."
"I'll take it."
Mr. Scott. "All right, you asked for it," he murmured. "How many?"
"Oh I don't know—one."
Mr. Scott nodded. "Well, I'll meet you at the desk," he said, and began to shuffle off.
Marth froze. "Huh?"
"I said, I'll meet you at the desk."
"But my fertilizer—"
"Once again, the customer is the lucky one," Mr. Scott interrupted. "They get to pick and choose, and they get to carry what they picked and chose."
Marth groaned.
He strode up desk a few moments later, carrying a bag of Greenie Fertilizer. Mr. Scott cackled. "See, you've got strong young muscles; you could get it yourself!" he crowed. "That's what kids these days need—some good back-breakin' work to build up those muscles of theirs," he continued, turning to his wife. "None of this fancy shmancy, high-falutin' machinery, or the-store-owner-can-get-it stuff—"
"Sylvester!" Mrs. Scott admonished quietly, then said to Marth, "That'll be twenty-five fifty."
Marth reached into a pocket and pulled out a wallet, which he opened and rifled through. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Popo rush by outside, his hands over his head; his screams muted. The former groaned and pulled the correct amount of money, handing it to the woman. She filed it away, handed him a receipt and smiled brightly. "Well then, have a good day sir!"
Marth mumbled unintelligibly and stuffed the wallet and receipt in his pocket. He then proceeded to pick up the bag, nod to the Scotts, then exit the store.
The couple went to the door and watched Marth pop open the trunk of the Lamborghini by way of a remote (Mr. Scott grumbled—"He doesn't need that fancy shmancy, high-falutin' remote—he can use his bare hands!") and toss the bag in. He then rounded the children up, put them inside the car, got in himself, gunned the engine, and, in a roar of sound and thick cloud of dust, left the lot.
"And there goes Lady City Slicker," said Mr. Scott.
"Sylvester!" Mrs. Scott gasped, turning to stare at her husband.
He shrugged. "Well its true—he was wearin' a tiara."
Mrs. Scott just sighed and shook her head in a resigned fashion, then turned to watch their high-falutin' customer and his ragtag band of children tear off in their ritzy Lamborghini into the sunset.
Author's Note: Well, I hope this was an enjoyable read. My apologies if the ending seemed a bit rushed--I think I was burned out by that point and rushing to end it. Well then, I won't be loath to a review! I love hearing what people have to say about my work! Deus vobiscum,
- Selah