In which our interpid hero confronts his own Rico Suave…
Once I thought I had been in love with Rosa. And Lalena. Not to mention Ruby. Or the glimmer of love with the princess hag whose name I still have not learned.
Now, surely, I knew what love meant. It meant Emmaretta! Even if she spent far more time speaking with the frog scout than me, I was certain every bat of her long flirty lashes expressed her true feelings. Especially when my only potential rival is a common wood frog named Edward Hopper.
How could a common wood frog possibly be a rival, you might ask? It took only ten minutes before I realized my predicament, but those ten minutes were costly. In hindsight, I should have suspected something at the sight of his natty camouflage cashmere scarf complete with fringe that was perfectly clean and pressed despite living in the Fens of Crthlus.
You may find it hard to believe how sexy a frog can look shaking droplets of water off its face. Trust me, I’ve seen princesses try to shake their long golden tresses with only half the sensuality of an Edward Hopper head shake. Then there’s the suave, offhanded flick of his tongue to catch a fly for dinner as if all creation is his to command. The extemporaneous THWIP to snag his unsuspecting prey, the urbane ZING as his tongue retracts, the fly’s face rapturously enamored to have been caught and eaten by Edward Hopper.
Finally, there’s the sheer magnetism of his croak. Low and slinky, his ribbits roll out as provocative as the sway of a serving wench’s hips. Actually, he doesn’t really ribbit. It’s more of a “purrrreeeek” that weakens one’s knees and flutters one’s heart while conjuring visions of moonlit strolls along a tropical beach under a gentle rain.
So that was my competition for Emmaretta’s affections. Two days of “Rrrribbit”… (suave head shake) “Purrrrrreek” (sexy hop) followed by excited squeals of “Rib rib rib ribbitty!” from the princess. How does one vie with such provacativeness when one’s trusty Craftsman™ broadsword is chipped and its edge worn?
The only time he ribbited with a cheeriness approaching Emmaretta’s perkiness was when I asked how he kept his natty cashmere scarf so clean and pressed. All sexiness dissipated as his croaks rose at least two octaves.
“Ribbit riibbity rrrribbbbiit rib rib rib ribbit puuuurrrrreeek! Rib [deep croak] ribbit ribbit ribbit!! Purreeek rib purreeeeeeeeekkkkk!!! Ribbity ribbity ribbity ribbity!!!! PUUURRRREEEEEKKKK!!!!!” And that was only the first paragraph! His excited ribitting would fill at least three pages without a single pause for breath. As you can well imagine, it was also said very quickly with no suavity whatsoever.
I have only heard this high-pitched fervor three times before: one was the baroness of a small city-state in Neitos, another the clockmaker’s wife in Jacumba (he was, after all, the finest clockmaker in the world, and able to charge ridiculous sums for his designer timepieces), while the third was the king’s tailor in Toulumne. All three times before, the excitement had been about shoes. All three times, the excitees possessed more shoes than an entire lifetime of undergarments for the average peasant. Thus, based on the frog’s equally high-pitched fervor, it is safe to assume that Edward Hopper had seized every frog-length cashmere scarf in the known lands.
The third page of ribbiting and purreeking ended abruptly, as did all cogitations about cashmere scarves. Edward Hopper, amidst all his excitement about said scarves, had successfully delivered us to Prince Charming’s hideaway in the fens, a pond with as many lily pads as any frog could dream of. Unfortunately, he and his frog seductress were not alone. Nor were they in any fit state to enjoy their amphibious paradise.
A small island of sedge grass and a solitary aspen tree squatted in the midst of the lily pads. Mist crawled across the fens and my neck prickled. One should never ignore neck prickling, so I slowed my approach wondering what could possibly be wrong.
Most obviously wrong were the ropes tying two frogs to the tree, both of whom wore crowns, but nothing else. For a moment, I was embarrassed for them in their clothing-less state until remembering nakedness is a frog’s natural state. Thankfully, I refrained from uttering my thoughts aloud. That would have been truly embarrassing.
“Hurry,” shouted Emmaretta. She rushed to the tree, a knife ready to slice the ropes.
Too late I uttered the other most obviously wrong state of the situation.
“It’s a trap!’
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