Rita’s Revenge

Smoke unfurled in the small sitting room, a violet haze Rita tried to swat away from the curtains. It better not stick to the curtains. 

“It is I! The granter of dreams, the renowned Djinn of kings -“ his voice boomed off the walls. Picture frames rattled and as the haze cleared the muscled form of his upper body could be seen. Gold hoops adorned both ears, eyes the same violet shade as the smoke glared out in righteous arrogance. 

“Oh my,” Rita sighed, “you are a talkative one aren’t you? What is your name dear?”

”I was about to say!” The Djinn sputtered. The smoke hovered along his waist and he had glared down at the unlikely summoner. 

“But not quickly.” Rita shook her head slightly. “Oh well, it doesn’t really matter does it?” Millard the Magnificent narrowed his eyes at the slight. The woman and room were plain and withered by time, far from his usual cowering audience.

“Fine, mortal, tell me your wish so I may grant it. But know this, there is only one and -“

”Yes, yes, I know. It can’t be undone and I may get more than what I bargained for. Wow, you do talk a lot don’t you? I guess there’s no need to be succinct if you’re immortal is there?” Rita laughed but Millard the Djinn only scowled at the lack of respect and fear. Clearly old age had addled her mind. His gaze drifted across the meager home, surely she would wish for riches. 

“How did you come across my vessel?” The Djinn found himself asking. “An inheritance?”

”Oh no, I found you at an estate sale.” 

“A sale?” The Djinn clarified. “And you could afford the price needed for me?” He had been auctioned off numerous times over the centuries, traded for vast riches and rare material. 

“Oh I got a great deal, no one else bid but I knew what was in there and hey, if I was wrong it was only a few bucks.” Millard doubted she meant the animal. The Djinn palmed his chest and lowered himself to hover over the plastic covered couch. This must be some sort of test

“I can take no more of this human. Let us be done so I may retreat to comfort more deserving.”

”That’s more like it!” Rita lowered herself in the chair opposite him. It crinkled as she settled in. “I’m Rita by the way. I have a neighbor, Cynthia Mivarn, who enters the Middlegrove Tomato Contest every year. I want her plant, and every one she claims to own to fail -“

”A tomato contest?” An unwanted image of crowned tomatoes flooded Millard’s vision. 

”Yes, that’s what I said. I want her to get to the last round but-“ 

”You want this person to lose a food contest?”

”Do keep up.” Rita sniffed and wondered if this was why he was found in an attic somewhere. It would be just her luck to stumble across a defective, and quite rude, Djinn. 

”Human, I have won wars. I have crowned kings!” Millard the Magnificent threw up his arms. 

”Are you saying you can’t do this?”

”I am an almighty being of immeasurable power and you want me to lay waste to a tomato plant?”

”Well I prefer her whole crop, anything she says she grew herself.” They sat facing each other for a moment, neither speaking.

”Can’t we just kill her?” The Djinn rubbed his forehead to try and push back the growing headache. A death he could twist into some semblance of a worthy story.

“Goodness no,” Rita waved the idea away with a laugh and then focused much colder eyes on his. “I want her completely humiliated.” She added with far more venom than the Djinn thought warranted. Millard spread a hand between them and a tea service appeared on the small table. Rita gave an appreciative hum and poured herself a cup. She looked around the tray and cleared her throat. “Normally, I provide sugar when serving tea.”

Millard the Magnificent often wished harm to those who summoned him. He wasn’t sure the last time it came upon him so quickly. The Djinn took a fortifying breath and waved a hand. Rita took a cube, then another, finally stopping at a ghastly six before settling back down. 

“Tell me why you’re using a wish from the almighty on tomatoes.” He asked with a grimace at the cup of sugar sludge in her hand. 

”Well it’s really quite simple, every year we submit our best plant to the contest. I’ve won every year, until that fraud moved in. Now I’m not a sore loser, I would take it gracefully if she won honestly but do you know what she did?” Without waiting for a response Rita rushed on. “She bought her plants! She didn’t grow them from seed as it clearly states in the contest rules. She didn’t even buy young seedlings, she took already fruiting plants, from across state lines, repotted them, and said they were her own!”   

“And this must be punished?” He asked warily. 

“A liar should never flourish. And Middlegrove farmers, true Middlegrove farmers, deserve to win. My seeds have been acclimating to our climate, our pests, for seasons. I have raised children on these tomatoes I have -“

“Yes, yes.” The Djinn interrupted. He sat down the hourglass tea cup gently, already regretting having asked. “I understand.” He really didn’t but feared further questions would keep him there longer. “Let us iron out the details.” Millard folded his large arms in front of his chest and looked down at the old woman.

“I want every plant Cynthia claims to own to wither once cut. Once the fruit is sliced.” Rita quickly amended. “In the last round of the contest the judge slices the final tomatoes.” Millard the Magnificent shuddered and tried to recall if his power had ever been used for something so trivial. 

“Well?” Rita drew his focus again.

“Your wish is my command.”