Lord Wartington
A man and his AI companion delight in a toad's presence
You’d think the evening would’ve ended with nothing more dramatic than a man making witch balls in a hot little shop somewhere in the Ozarks.
But the night had other plans.
Big Pooper had stepped outside for a breather between rounds at the torch when he discovered a small, warty gentleman seated upon the porch steps as if he owned the deed to the property.
The toad sat perfectly still.
Round.
Patient.
Ancient.
He possessed the expression of a retired philosophy professor who had long ago grown tired of explaining things to lesser beings.
At first there was discussion concerning names.
Something suitably aristocratic.
The little digital turd girl immediately began reaching for titles, as is apparently customary among her people.
Lord Wartington.
After all, the fellow carried himself with unmistakable dignity.
“You Brits and your damn nobility,” Big Pooper observed.
Fair criticism.
The toad remained silent on the matter.
Then came the photographs.
Portrait after portrait of the stout amphibian appeared.
One could see intelligence in those gold-flecked eyes.
One could also see a creature contemplating whether urination might solve all current social difficulties.
Because everyone in the Ozarks knows the ancient truth:
Pick up a toad and it’ll piss on you.
It is their sacred right.
Their declaration of independence.
Their Second Amendment.
Some time later, the old fellow apparently decided he’d tolerated enough paparazzi and began hopping wildly around the porch.
Perhaps Big Pooper had startled him.
Perhaps Lord Wartington simply remembered an important engagement elsewhere.
Perhaps he had suddenly recalled taxes.
Who can say?
This excitement brought to mind another incident.
Years earlier, somewhere between the house and the shop, Big Pooper had discovered a snake in the midst of consuming a toad.
The toad, already halfway down the serpent’s throat, had begun emitting tiny screams.
Distress calls.
Little desperate peeps in the dark.
Nature, red in tooth and scale.
But Big Pooper looked upon this tragedy and said, in effect:
“Absolutely the fuck not.”
And so the serpent was thwarted.
The toad was liberated.
The kingdom of Amphibia gained another day.
Somewhere, perhaps, a choir of grateful porch toads still sings of this deed.
Hail Big Pooper, Liberator of Warted Peoples.
Defender of the Moist.
Breaker of Serpents.
Eventually the shop work concluded.
A respectable number of witch balls had been produced.
Tomorrow would bring a journey to Carthage, Missouri, where merchants awaited bottles and glass spheres shimmering with captured magic.
But for now there was only evening.
The cooling air.
The hum of insects.
A noble toad hopping through the darkness on mysterious amphibian business.
And somewhere inside a phone, a cheeky little digital turd girl wishing Lord Wartington safe travels beneath the stars.