Twisted tales - страница 3

Unbeknownst to our lovesick Benjamin, Rose was allergic to roses. Terribly, spectacularly, violently allergic. Each morning, after Benjamin's stealthy floral delivery, Rose would wake up, not to a sweet-smelling serenade, but to a sneezing fit that could rival a small earthquake. Her eyes would puff up like over-inflated balloons, and her nose would run like a leaky faucet. She suspected a well-meaning but clueless Cupid was at work, but had no idea who was behind the floral attacks.

One crisp autumn morning, Benjamin, peering through his binoculars (disguised as “birdwatching equipment”), saw Rose emerge onto her balcony. This was it, the moment! She picked up the rose, her face scrunched up in a way that Benjamin interpreted as pure, unadulterated delight.

“Curse this infernal pollen!” she shouted, before launching into a sneezing volley, loud enough to wake the dead.

Benjamin, finally understanding the fragrant folly of his ways, went back to his waistcoat, a little bit wiser, and a lot more itchy. After all, as fate often reminds us, even the most beautiful blossoms can carry hidden thorns. And sometimes, the grandest gestures are best kept to oneself, unless one wishes to induce a sneezing symphony of epic proportions.

Charles, a man whose morals were as elastic as an old rubber band – stretched thin and easily snapped – fancied himself a bit of a Robin Hood, minus the archery skills and the noble intentions. One night, under a moon that looked suspiciously like a peeled orange, he liberated a gold box from the mansion of Lord Featherbottom, a man whose wealth was as vast and unsettling as the Gobi Desert. “Reparations,” Charles muttered, feeling quite heroic despite the clammy sweat on his palms.

The box, smaller than a loaf of day-old bread but heavier than a guilty conscience, gleamed under the dim light of Charles's squalid apartment. Curiosity, that relentless cat, finally clawed at him. He pried it open, and a wisp of shimmering gas, smelling vaguely of lemons and forgotten dreams, escaped. Before Charles could slam it shut, he inhaled.

He laughed. Not a polite chuckle, mind you, but a full-bodied, gut-busting, tear-inducing guffaw. He laughed until his ribs ached, until his landlady, Mrs. Finth, pounded on the door, threatening eviction and mentioning something about summoning the spirits of dead cats. The laughter subsided only with the dawn, leaving Charles feeling drained and vaguely ridiculous.

He tried to ditch the box, of course. He tossed it in the river, but it bobbed back like a persistent suitor. He buried it in the park, but it reappeared on his bedside table, as shiny and mocking as ever. Every morning, he’d wake to find that infernal box, and the cycle of giggles would begin anew.

Desperate, Charles consulted Old Man Fitzwilliam, the neighbourhood oracle, who smelled perpetually of mothballs and old regrets. Fitzwilliam, after peering at Charles with eyes that saw clear through him, cackled, a sound like rusty hinges opening. “Ah, the Laughing Box! Legend says Lord Featherbottom cursed it. No one can keep it, but no one is punished for stealing it. The curse is that the box has to be stolen, if it is not, the laughing gas will kill the owner.”

Charles saw the logic in it. The thing needed to be stolen. It was a societal laughingstock, a perpetual prank played on the world. He left the box on a park bench, under a sign that read “Free to a good home.” He watched from behind a tree as a gaggle of teenagers snatched it up, their laughter echoing through the park. The next morning, Charles woke up feeling lighter than air, the lingering scent of lemons a pleasant memory. He’d done his civic duty, redistributed the mirth, and, for the first time in weeks, he could face the day with a straight face and maybe, just maybe, a little stolen joy of his own.