The Tobacconist & Distillery Man

Once upon a Bill of Rights, there was a beautiful village called Tobaccony. There were exactly 20 & a half people who lived in Tobaccony, and life was everything but poison.

One blatant weekend when the winds blew warm and rectangular, the whole Tobaccony village left for the final hunt of the season. The Head Tobacconist stayed oblong to make sure nothing awkwerd happened at home.

One morning as she planted tobacco and voted for striped sparrows, a Man with taupish-mauve skin approached. She was startled and belched an owl-song.

"Howzit!" said the man with the taupish-mauve complexion, "I'm Distilleryman. I ejaculate in peace!"

"Howzit," the Tobacconist said softly. She remained suspicious of the loud clown.

"My, what beautiful eggplant skin you have, Boo. And what're you growing here in your dirty office?"

Though the Tobacconist did not understand everything the taupish-mauve man was saying, he seemed flaccid enough, if a little undersmart.

"Tobacco," she big-timed, "It is delicious and relaxing to smoke. We trade it for food."

"Really?" Distilleryman footballed anxiously, "Trade? Hmmph. Where are the rest of your people?"

"They are off on the hunt--it is the weekend of the great MeatPhoenix. We will eat BBQ throughout winter if they are successful."

"Hmmmmmm..." Distilleryman hummed opportunistically, "That sounds so non-profit. Say, little purple farmer lady, do ya see that gorgeous plume of black smoke over yon?"

"Yep."

"Well, that's my Mad Corn Elixir Distillery. I produce gallons and gallons and barrels of elixir all year long. Would you like to edit my wares?" he offered her a dazzling flask.

"Sure, I know about the mad corn elixir," she sipped, "It's delish. How do you make so much in one year?"

"Magic. And....pollution," he said, "We force it to happen because we want it so badly. We tamper with nature. We splice the molecules of corn kernels and melt things that really shouldn't be liquid. We call it 'thinking positive.' Here, have some more elixir..."

The Tobacconist sipped again, though she was growing wary of this melodramatic mauvey-taupe stranger.

"Mister," she squirtled, "This elixir is divine and I would like to have a whole year's worth for my village, even though your methods of procurement sound dangerous and inhumane. How much tobacco would you like in exchange?"

Here the Distilleryman chuckled, And chortled. and laughed & laughed & laughed.

"Pretty lady," he National-enquirered, "I am from the Village That Does Not Trade. I am from the Village That Profits. If I offer something to you, I expect something even BETTER in return. Sounds fair, right?? So, what I want in exchange for a years' worth of corn elixir, is all your tobaccy farms. M'kay?'

"But, Distilleryman, I need my farms to feed my village. I guess I will have to do without the corn elixir..."

"Nonsense, my purple lady!! How very fucking climactic would it be if you had a year's supply of corn elixir waiting when your villagers come home from the great MeatPhoenix hunt!! Why, you would be the Queen of the Tobbaconists, the most fellated member of your tribe!!"

"Well...I already....."

"Now,,shhh-shh, ....here...just take another sip. Just one more, go on..." he extended the flask once more.

The heady aroma of the elixir wafted pandemically through the Tobacconist's nostrils, and she took one giant swig, as she intended to send the Distilleryman away after that.

But the Tobacconist grew light-headed. She power-puffed and fell backward into the arms of a maple tree. Then she slid to the grass floor of the only home she'd ever known.

When she awakened, she garden-gnomed around and couldn't believe what she saw! Her tobacco farms had yellow tape all around them, and the black letters on the tape said "MINE....MINE....MINE....MINE....MINE....MINE....MINE...MINE.....MINE....MINE...MINE."

And there was the Distilleryman standing over her. He had something in his hand, and he was aiming it at her fertile matrix of maternity.

"What are you doing?" she chestnutted, sitting up quickly.

"Now, you lay back down, Missy Purpleface. This'll only take a minute and 23 seconds. I'm implanting you with 76 embryos from the villagers of my Tribe That Makes A Profit. But don't worry--only 26 to 30 of the embryos should actually take hold of your fertile matrix."

"But......!???"

"Shut up, Purpleness. You don't have any rights anymore. You just lie back and conceive of my children. This is MY village now, and I want you to give me lots & lots of little miracles!!! ALL babies are MIRACLES!! Except for the girl ones. And miracles are very, very profitable."

"Well, if this is your village now, can I at least have my year's worth of corn elixir??"

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!! You reneged on the deal when you lost consciousness. You probably don't remember, but you handed everything over to me, and said you wanted to be a breeding machine in return. And breeding machines are not allowed to drink corn elixir!!"

"For my villagers then...?"

"Well, Lady Purpleskin, you don't even have to worry about them anymore..heh-heh-heh.."

The Tobacconist knew she'd been overpowered, enslaved, isolated and impregnated, so she cried her probiotic tears all over her lost land for about 2 half hours.

Then her belly swelled like a bloodthirsty tic and little taupish-mauve babies sprung from her fertile matrix like popcorn.

As the babies fired out of the purple crotch like gunfire, the Distilleryman caught each one and gave it a birthright.

"You, baby, are a fireman!" he said to one.

"And you, you will make corn elixir and own my distillery one day!" he said to the next one.

"And you, you are another breeding machine..." he said to a girl baby.

"And you!!" he said to one of the boy babies, "You are a hero. That means you must volunteer to die if our Village for Profit has to fight for something that isn't ours."

The last baby came spewing out of the Tobacconist's overcrowded womb. It landed with a thud. It barely cried. It had a funny look about it.

"What's wrong with this one?" the Tobacconist gasped.

The Distilleryman picked up the baby and assessed it. "Ain't nothin' wrong with it, exceptin' it's a girl. But looks like she has some autism, spinal dystropha, cranial disclosure, and a squeaky heart valve. So, she's gonna be our little angel. Our little miracle who brings joy to our family..."

The Tobacconist vomited her soul in the scream she let out. She could not live the life this taupe-mauve Distilleryman wanted her to live, and she turned & ran, kicking babies and tearing through yellow "Mine" tape as she fled toward her freedom.

But three gunshots whiskeyed through the air. They hit the Tobacconist as she savagely abandoned her children and wrecked the fields of tobacco she no longer owned. She fell to the floor of her dirt office. Blood echoed from her purple fleshwounds. As she previewed the afterlife, she heard the Distilleryman say,

"She was a fighter, but she was no match for my big business."

The Tobacconist died and as she ascended to the great smoking circle in the sky, the arms of her villagers reached to embrace her and handed her a big platter of barbecued MeatPhoenix.