Twisted tales - страница 7

His cheeks, akin to inflated balloons, betrayed his lunchtime activities. Meanwhile, the Little Lambs, once rosy-cheeked cherubs, began to resemble pale imitations of their former selves. Their once-bright eyes dimmed, their laughter faded, replaced by the distant grumbling of empty stomachs.

Miss Abigail, the kindergarten teacher, noticed the tragic transformation. “Bruce,” she'd inquire, her voice laced with concern, “are you sure these children are getting enough to eat? Tommy's starting to resemble a dandelion seed in a strong breeze.”

Bruce, ever the picture of innocence, would pat his protruding belly and declare, “They're eating like little piggies, Miss Abigail! Must be a growth spurt.” He'd then waddle back to the kitchen, humming a jaunty tune, ready to “grow” his own portion.

Karma, however, is a dish best served with a side of excruciating pain. One fateful afternoon, Bruce Butterlad found himself clutching his stomach, writhing on the linoleum floor of the kindergarten kitchen. His face, usually a rosy hue, had turned a ghastly shade of green.

The diagnosis? Pancreatitis, brought on by an excess of, well, everything. As Bruce lay in the sterile hospital bed, hooked to an IV drip, he had ample time to reflect on his dietary sins. The Little Lambs, meanwhile, were enjoying a veritable feast of donated pizzas, their laughter echoing through the halls of the kindergarten.

The moral of the story? Don't bite the hand that feeds you, especially if that hand belongs to a hungry kindergartner. And remember, a “balanced” diet involves more than just stuffing your own face. Sometimes, a little self-control is the best medicine of all.

Marcus, a man whose life seemed perpetually stuck on “pause,” was known around Oakhaven for two things: his prodigious appetite for Mrs. Higgins' apple pie and the small, velvet-lined box he carried with him everywhere. This wasn’t just any box; it was THE box, the one he claimed held a timepiece of such historical significance it could make the Smithsonian jealous. A watch, he’d explain with a dramatic cough, awarded to him personally by General Thunderbolt himself “for services rendered beyond the call, bordering on the miraculous, wouldn’t you say?”

The stories surrounding this watch were as plentiful as the dandelions in Mrs. Abernathy’s neglected lawn. One day it was for single-handedly rerouting a misplaced battalion during a training exercise, another for deciphering an enemy code using only a paperclip and a rubber band. Each tale, spun with increasing embellishment, always ended with General Thunderbolt, eyes twinkling, bestowing upon Marcus the coveted watch.

Of course, nobody had ever seen the watch. The box, yes, held aloft like a religious artifact during Marcus's performances, but the contents remained stubbornly veiled. “Ah, the light, you see,” he’d explain, waving a hand dismissively. “Too precious to expose to just any atmosphere. Tarnishes the… the… intrinsic value.”

Old Man Hemlock, who’d seen more bluster than a Kansas tornado, always chuckled. “Marcus,” he’d say, “you’re spinning yarns thicker than a ship’s rope. Likely the only general you ever met was the one on the Wheaties box.”

But Marcus would merely smile, a secretive, knowing smile that hinted at untold bravery and the weight of unspeakable secrets. He'd continue to cradle his velvet box, a tangible representation of an intangible glory.