Francis, The Bridge Troll

Once upon a time, an unbelievably handsome prince was galloping through the forest on an assuredly altruistic mission to save an unfathomably gorgeous princess.

When he came to a river, a stomach-sick bridge-troll with large glasses and a black fedora popped out to block the prince’s path.

“I’m so, so sorry. But I’m going to have to stop you.”

“Not now, troll. A beautiful princess is being held captive by her evil stepmother.”

“Well, now, wait a moment. Evil? That’s a hasty generalization. Have you actually talked with this stepmother?” The troll wiped his glasses with his sweaty shirt. “Kind of drips of misogyny if you ask me. It takes years for a fused family to accept each other, even with therapy and—”

“She locked her stepdaughter in a tower. There’s a dragon guarding her!”

“Family dynamics are complicated.”

“Look, troll,” the prince said as he pointed his impeccably manicured finger at the gray, pimpled monster. “This is my mission. I need to save her—”

“From a life of virginity, eh?” the troll said with a salacious grin, a tip of his fedora, and a loud gurgle of his stomach.

“That’s…that’s not at all my intention, and I’m appalled you would—”

“But you’re unmarried, right?”

“Ir-relevant,” the prince responded with a virtuous rise in his voice and a righteous blush of his cheeks. “My marital status has nothing to do with—"

“Woah, woah, woah, guy. I’m just seeing whether I should let you pass or not,” the bridge troll said with his hands raised. The troll’s name was Francis, by the way. No one ever really asks.

The good prince steered his horse back and forth to try to abate his own agitation. Finally, and frankly with a valid tinge of impatience, he addressed Francis, the troll.

“What do I need to do to cross?”

Francis scratched his chin with his forefinger claw.

“Well, usually I just charge a tax.”

“Okay, money. I have some. How much will it cost?” the dazingly regal prince asked while stroking his breathtakingly chiseled jaw.

Francis pushed his massive glasses up his prominent nose. Then, with both hands, he began to count. After a flurry of raised and dropped fingers, the troll had a number.

“69 gold coins and three wooden buttons.”

“How in the world did you come up with that number?”

“Don’t know,” Francis replied. His stomach grumbled. He wondered if the berries he picked for lunch were the wrong kind of red. “It just kind of popped into my brain.”

“It’s a silly number,” the mature and morally correct prince replied. “And why buttons?”

“Starting a collection.”

The prince ran his fingers through his flowing blond locks. His hair was flawless, even after the fervent riding he had done up to that point. It glistened in a brilliant golden hue and feathered lightly about his taut face.

“Look, troll. I don’t carry that kind of money with me. And buttons? All I have are the ones on my tunic. And I would never tear them off.”

“That’s a shame,” Francis said, and he was right. The prince had a tantalizingly strong chest with a magnificent tan to boot.

Francis took a seat on the bridge, blocking it with his body, which now quivered due to a mild case of food poisoning.

“Well, wait,” the brave prince said. “Don’t you usually have some sort of test? A way to prove myself?”

“Kind of rough start with the whole evil stepmother bit at the beginning,” Francis said, more under his breath than aloud. “But you seem like a nice enough guy…on a virtuous mission, good confidence, great hair,” he said admiring the prince’s blond hair once more. Then, Francis stood up. “Why not?”

“Thank you.” The prince humbly bowed his head…but not in a way unbefitting his station as a perfect royal son. “So, you’ll let me through?”

“Oh, ha!”

Francis’s laughter was cut short as he leaned over his stomach. Something was pushing from his belly out to the body’s exit point, if you know what I mean. After a moment, he stood back up, assured all was contained.

“No-can-do. You must do something to prove your worthiness.”

“Says who?” the prince replied.

“The handbook.”

“Handbook?”

“Rules and Regulations for the Allegorical Safeguarding of Passageways. Third Edition.”

“That’s ridiculous.” The prince’s voice was filled with an aesthetically pleasing gruffness. Very masculine.

Francis felt bad. He was just doing his job. But an idea struck him. After all, this prince was super likeable and endearingly handsome.

“Hey, hey, hey! I’ve got it! A riddle of sorts. A simple task to earn your way.”

The prince shrugged his broad shoulders. He was clearly the sharper sword of the two. And he needed to get to his future happily-ever-after. Thus, he dismounted his steed and tied it to a branch before approaching the troll named Francis.

“Fine,” the prince said.

“So…you agree to the terms and conditions?”

“You’ve given me no terms nor conditions,” the prince wisely rebutted. “Nor a task.”

“Oh, gosh. You’re right.” Francis smacked his forehead with the palm of his monstrous hand. “I should explain.”

The prince nodded with a graciousness unworthy of his bumbling opponent.

“Here’s the thing: I’m thinking of a fruit, and you have three to seven questions to figure it out.”

“What an arbitrary riddle!” the prince exclaimed with an amazing richness of voice. “And which number is it?”

“Oh, um,” the troll scritched his bald head, which lay under the fedora. “Let’s say seven. You deserve it.”

“Okay. And if I should somehow fail to guess the fruit?” the prince asked, though he clearly would not. Still, humility and propriety begged him to ask.

“Gosh, I hope not. However, if that were the case…well…I’d be forced to eat you.”

Francis could see a flash of concern in the prince’s deep blue eyes and perfectly plump lips.

“Believe me, I do mean forced,” Francis quickly added. “Because you are by all measures someone I could be friends with…you know…under different circumstances.”

The big-brained prince pondered for a moment. He realized it wouldn’t be all that difficult to solve the riddle, and a lovely princess awaited him, and seven was a lucky number.

So, he nodded.

“You agree?” Francis asked.

The prince nodded again, kind of unnecessarily, but he was a gentleman.

“I’m sorry. I reeeeeally need verbal consent. I would feel a lot better—”

“Yes yes yes! I agree,” the prince said, waving his super muscular arms. “Let’s get on with it.”

Francis was taken aback by the passionate, well-placed outburst. But he shrugged.

“Ask away,” Francis responded as he shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t want to say it, but he needed the prince to hurry.

“What,” the prince began with a brilliant, knowing smile, “is the name of the fruit you are thinking of?”

Francis startled.

“Woah woah woah!” he chuckled. “That was—wow—very smart. But I’m sorry, I cannot tell you the name of the fruit. Should have made that clear from the start. My bad.”

“Who says you can’t?”

“Rules and Regulations for the Allegorical—”

“Okay, okay. I get it.”

The resilient prince, unphased by an egregious break of decorum, pushed on with his next question.

“Okay, then. Can you spell the name of your fruit?” the prince asked with a renewed smirk.

“Ho, man. You…you’re a smart one, you know that? I can only affirm or negate your questions. So no, can’t do that eitherrrrrr.” Francis tried to step forward, but the cramping in his stomach left him folded.

The prince paced side to side with long, athletic strides. “This is stupid,” he said. “I don’t even know the stupid rules.”

“Well, now, the rules are laid out in the handbook—” Francis began, but he couldn’t focus or finish his thought. His choices were coming to call. And they burned fierce with urgency.

“Okay,” the prince said. “Let’s start easy. Is the fruit green?”

“Great question. I think so,” Francis said. His eyes were closed, and his head leaned against the post. “But I can’t be sure.”

The prince’s face turned an imposing shade of red. Like the berries Francis ate for lunch.

“How do you not know the color of the freaking fruit you are thinking about? What is wrong with you?” the prince shouted. We can all agree his anger was well-warranted.

Francis whimpered. His body was shaking uncontrollably.

“The red ones. The red berries I ate—” he whined as he clutched his stomach.

The prince, rightfully unconcerned with the troll’s misery and understandably lead to believe he’d been tipped the answer, leapt with joy.

“Ah ha! Is the fruit you are thinking of ‘poisonberry’?”

“Yes…” Francis whispered, practically in tears. “But no.”

Later that night, Francis sat alone at his kitchen table and replayed his afternoon encounter with the prince. He felt really bad. In fact, only his digestive track felt any sort of reprieve.

“What terrible misunderstanding,” he whispered as he ran his paw over his bald head. He had taken off his fedora and left it by the door. He was in no mood to sport high fashion, even at home. Fedoras were for winners.

Francis grabbed a piece of bone and dug out some remnants of his meal stuck in his sizable teeth. He had cooked a tough bit a meat for dinner…seriously, just all muscle…but it was also unbelievably delicious—a real delicacy.

With a sigh, Francis pushed away from the table and walked to his hallway mirror. He grabbed his new radiant blond hairpiece and placed it on his head.

“Kumquat,” he said with a sigh.

He frowned, though he looked marvelous.

“The fruit I was thinking of was kumquat.”