Once upon a time there was a Realm in which there lived all sorts of very strange creatures. As the reader might know, it had become the role of Prince Charming and his loyal and talkative horse Percy to police some of these eccentric and dangerous miscreants. They included the Pied Piper who had graduated from conventional pest control to more sinister pursuits, a blood thirsty and cross dressing Wolf, the Paper Ballerina and a Golden Goose who laid golden eggs which had quite an affect on the Realm’s precious metals market.
Along with these there was the Gingerbread Man. He, like the others, had been the fruit of the labours of the Warlock, a lonely old sorcerer who had desperately been trying to conjure up a female companion. He had completely failed unless you consider a paper and cardboard feature resembling the female form or a Wolf wearing a dress and shawl to be sufficient. These strange creatures had been released into the Realm and were running amok.
The Gingerbread Man had ended up in a bakery where he had literally scared the baker to death. Following that, he was a wanted man.
Oh…now about that.
You see while he was assumed to be male, the Gingerbread Man displayed no signs of being male or female. No genitals were on show. Those who had met him…I mean her…I mean…them…had been quick to notice this. Now the Gingerbread Man…Person…had been adamant they were male. They had been adamant in a squeaky voice that many would claim they were not male but adamant they had been. Nonetheless, their gender was something of a controversial sticking point in the Realm. People were so sure that they weren’t male that even the Evil Queen had ruled out taking them as a partner and we all know how desperate she is.
Nonetheless, the Gingerbread Person (which seems the safest way of describing them after consulting our legal team) had been released by the Evil Queen after she decided that they were of no use to her. The walking talking soft biscuit had another problem although they were not yet aware of it. After the death of the baker, a price had been put on their head by the local Sheriff so capturing them would be in the interests of many.
About an hour after being evicted from the castle of the Evil Queen, the Gingerbread Person was trudging through the forest when they spotted a tree with a poster nailed to it.
“One hundred gold pieces!” they exclaimed before noticing something else other than the reward amount. “Gingerbread Person!”
The Gingerbread Person took umbrage with this moniker and ripped the poster from the tree, screwing it into a ball and chucking it in some nearby bushes.
The Ginger bread person in a rage, they joined the others and headed towards the nearby village.
The village was as quiet as normal but for the odd local inhabitant going about their business but heads were soon turned once people noticed the presence of the Gingerbread Person. They were marching around the place indignantly removing all the posters offering a reward for their capture. Very soon, the posters on the door of Sheriff’s office, the village notice board and the door of the pub in the market place had been torn down.
“There it is!” cried one villager before going to knock on the door of the Sheriff’s office. “The Gingerbread Person!”
“I am the Gingerbread Man!” screeched the angry baked good.
“What is it?” the Sheriff emerged from their office before noticing exactly what was going on. “I don’t believe it!”
“They’re taking down all the wanted posters!” the villager told him.
“The cheek of it!” said the Mayor who had joined the ever growing crowd in the square.
“I am a Gingerbread Man!”
Now dear reader, seeing as the Gingerbread Person clearly identifies as ‘male’, I think we can agree that, whatever anyone else in this story thinks, we should return to referring to them…I mean…him…as the Gingerbread Man. From an ethical and legal perspective, this is only fair and will avoid any unpleasant lawsuits or online trolling.
“You don’t have a winky!” yelled the Mayor.
Getting back to the finer detail and the politics of LGBTQ, this remark from the Mayor of all people, might have seemed childish and churlish. It might also imply that this story nor the writer of it are capable of highbrow literature but nevertheless, it was a valid point. For whatever reason, the Gingerbread Man did not have a winky. In fact, for the record, he (as we are now referring to him) had no private parts whatsoever.
“I am a man!” insisted the Gingerbread Man before tossing the screwed up posters over his shoulder. “How dare you say otherwise? And what’s this about one hundred gold pieces?”
“You are a murderer!” the Sheriff pointed at him. “A menace to society!”
“Murderer?” the Gingerbread Man cried.
“You killed the baker!”
“Yes!” added one of the villagers. “You slaughtered him! You fiend!”
“I didn’t!” protested the Gingerbread Man. “I didn’t murder him. He died but it was an accident!”
“Likely story!” the Sheriff produced his sword and approached the Gingerbread Man. “Now Gingerbread Person…time to face justice.”
“Hang on…” the Mayor spoke up. “Did we find out if the baker’s wife can bake?”
“What?” the Sheriff turned to him irritably.
“My daughter’s wedding banquet? Remember?”
“Oh that,” the Sheriff sheathed his sword and looked about the crowd. “Does anybody know where the baker’s wife is?”
“She is burying her husband,” explained one villager.
“Is she? How inconvenient!”
Nearby there was some commotion as several other villagers were placing tables around the place along with bunting and marking the ground with white painted lines.
“I forgot today was the annual sports day!” said another villager.
“Oh yes,” the Mayor looked rather sheepish, especially as he was meant to be the one not only firing the starting gun for the main race but awarding the medals. “In all this excitement, I had forgotten.”
“Sports?” the Gingerbread Man was curious.
“Yes,” nodded the Mayor. “It’s very competitive. This village is replete with athletes all keen to win the events we are putting on.”
“We’re very proud of our sporting achievements,” said the Sheriff. “The Olympic spirit thrives in this village!”
“What do you do?” asked the Gingerbread Man.
“We run several gruelling races,” explained the Mayor. “Tests of human endurance and strength.”
“Yes,” added the Sheriff. “Javelin throwing, weight lifting, the high jump…”
“The egg and spoon race…”
“Yes! And the cross country run!”
“A run?” the Gingerbread Man was excited.
“Yes,” said the Sheriff. “That’s what the white markings on the ground are for. They’re making the start and finish line.”
“I like running!” enthused the Gingerbread Man. “Can I run in this race?”
“Well I suppose,” shrugged the Mayor. “It’s open to everyone…”
“No he bloody can’t!” the Sheriff interrupted him. “He’s a wanted criminal remember?”
“Oh go on!” whined the Gingerbread Man. “I am quite quick you know!”
“Too right you are!” growled the Sheriff. “Seeing how you legged it after killing the baker!”
“I didn’t kill the baker!” protested the Gingerbread Man. “He just died in front of me.”
“Sounds like murder to me!” said the Sheriff.
“No! I did nothing wrong! He was just frightened by me I guess?”
“Frightened?”
“Yes, it’s not my fault I look the way I do,” the Gingerbread Man sighed. “Nobody likes me for some reason. I just want to be accepted you see.”
“I suppose it is possible?” the Mayor turned to the Sheriff. “I mean, he seems like a fairly friendly fellow, despite all the rumours.”
“I am not sure,” the Sheriff shook his head. “He looks like a wrong un to me! Those beady little raisin eyes give me the creeps.”
“I cannot help the way I look!” cried the Gingerbread Man. “Don’t be prejudiced!”
“I don’t know,” the Mayor regarded the Sheriff again. “Perhaps we have got this all wrong? I say we don’t deprive him of his liberty and let the little chap enter the race.”
“Now come on,” the Sheriff objected to him. “If we let him off he could go on a killing spree!”
“He’s not killed any of us, has he? I am sure he’s not a maniac or anything!”
“Fine,” the Sheriff snapped. “But one false move and he’s toast!”
“I’m made of biscuit not bread,” said the Gingerbread Man.
“Another paradox!” remarked the Sheriff.
“Mayor,” one of the villagers holding a pencil and clipboard approached them. “Am I to understand that you wish for this creature to enter the cross country race?”
“Yes, let’s indulge him!”
“But Mayor,” the race event organizer’s brow was furrowed. “Can’t you see the problem with that?”
“No, I can’t…”
“We have one cross country race for the women and one for the men,” explained the man.
“I know!” the Mayor nodded. “I might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but I have been attending this event since I was a small boy.”
“Yes, but don’t you see?”
They all looked the Gingerbread Man up and down.
“What?” the penny seemingly hadn’t dropped for the Mayor.
“This biscuit creature thing is in neither category!”
“I’m a man!” cried the Gingerbread Man.
“It doesn’t look like one or the other,” remarked the event organizer with a shrug. “And it might be unfair to put it in the female race if they have some slight advantage.”
“An advantage?” the Mayor asked.
“Yes! It looks like it could be male or female or a bit of both. For all I know, if we put it in the female race where they run slightly slower than the men, it could beat them all.”
“I will run in the other race!” insisted the Gingerbread Man. “The mens race!”
“Ah well now…” the event organizer tapped his clipboard. “I’m not keen on that either.”
“Why not?”
“You might be put at a disadvantage that way. But there is something else to consider.”
“What?” groaned the Gingerbread Man.
“You will have to use the same changing rooms as the men.”
“That is fine!”
“No, it isn’t!” the race organizer turned to the Mayor. “Can’t you see? The men might object to a non-male changing with them. This creature could be staring at their dangly bits!”
“Can’t it use the female changing room?” suggested the Mayor. “Given that they don’t have a winky?”
“Certainly not!” he instantly replied. “This creature keeps trying to tell us that they’re male so one suspects they would get some warped pleasure out of being in a changing room of naked and nubile women.”
“Are they nubile?” the Mayor was taken aback.
“I like to think so,” nodded the race organizer with a far off distant look on his wizened old face.
“It really is complicated,” the Mayor sighed.
“Maybe they could change in their own space?” spoke up another villager.
“That is a good idea,” nodded the event organizer after coming out of his trance and wiping the sweat from his brow. “But that doesn’t solve the problem as to them racing.”
“I will race with the men!” said a defiant Gingerbread Man. “And I don’t need to put any clothes on so I won’t require a space to change in!”
“Right okay, okay!” the event organizer and the Mayor sighed.
“And I will beat off all the men racing!”
“What?” the Mayor raised an eyebrow.
“Yes! They will end up in a hot sweaty mess trying to keep up with me!”
“Right…”
“And I will definitely come first,” declared the Gingerbread Man.
“Don’t bank on it,” said the Mayor. “Some of the men are very fast.”
“Not a chance! I will come first with all the men behind me panting away as they struggle to keep up.”
The event organizer, the Mayor, the Sheriff and about a dozen villagers all regarded the Gingerbread Man in disgust.
“Does he always talk like this?” the event organizer turned to the Mayor and the Sheriff.
“The baker’s widow did mention something,” said the Sheriff.
Over the next few hours, several events went ahead. The cross country race was the last one so the Gingerbread Man hung around impatiently.
“What’s next? Is it next?” he asked the event organizer as they watched the high jump athletes compete in the market square.
“Not yet,” sighed the event organizer. “It’s the climax of the day.”
“Climax?”
“Yes, the final event.”
“I’ll be coming first in the big climax?”
“What?” the event organizer frowned. “Anyway, you might not come first you know?”
“Oh, I always come first. I am like that you see. Once I get going, I just can’t stop and it’s soon over!”
“Right…”
“How many other men are in this race?” asked the Gingerbread Man.
“About two dozen.”
“Oh really? Two dozen men all climaxing one after another.”
“He’s doing it again!” the event organizer shouted over to the Mayor and Sheriff who were departing the beer tent.
“Doing what?” asked the Mayor.
“Talking funny. Saying inappropriate, creepy stuff.”
“No I wasn’t!” insisted the Gingerbread Man. “I was just saying how much I like climaxing!”
“What?” the Mayor went pale.
“Now come on!” the Sheriff gave him yet another dirty look. “The sports day is a family event! There are children and woman present!”
“I know! Do they all cheer the climax?”
“Certainly not!”
“Do you mean ‘do they cheer the end of the race’?” sighed the event organizer shaking his head in bewilderment.
“Yes!”
“Then yes, they do cheer,” he rolled his eyes at the Mayor and the Sheriff. “We seem to be having some misunderstandings. Maybe they all talk like this where ever he comes from.”
“Where I come from?” the Gingerbread Man replied. “I come all over the place.”
“If I didn’t know better,” the Sheriff said. “I’d think he was conveniently adding or leaving out certain words in order to shock us with cheap and offensive sexual innuendo.”
“Which women will be cheering at the end of the race?” inquired the Gingerbread Man.
“That’s better!” said the event organizer. “To call it ‘the end of the race’. Glad you have got the hang of it!”
“Which woman?” the Mayor began. “Our wives for starters.”
“Your wives?” the Gingerbread Man asked.
“Yes,” nodded the Sheriff. “All the women in the village really. Wives, girlfriends, the women who competed in the cross country race prior to yours.”
“Will the baker’s wife be there?”
“What?”
“You know? Cheering me on as I am finished off?”
“Do you mean?” the event organizer groaned. “’Cheering you on as you reach the finish line?’”
“I suppose,” said the Gingerbread Man. “When I win, I will finish very happy.”
“You will?”
“A happy finish.”
“If you finish first,” pointed out the event organizer.
“I always finish first,” the Gingerbread Man corrected him.
“Yes, I’d rather you didn’t start going on about that all over again…”
“So will the baker’s wife be there? For my happy finish? Cheering?”
“No,” the Sheriff kept his temper in check. “Funnily enough, she isn’t in the mood.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
“Yes, I guess.”
“Will your wives be there?” the Gingerbread Man asked hopefully.
“Well of course they will…”
“Jolly good, I’m glad they’ll be there cheering when I climax.”
“I give up!” the Mayor said before returning to the beer tent, followed by the Sheriff and the event organizer.
Eventually, all the events had been completed apart from the cross country run for the men. The entrants all congregated at the start line, regarding the Gingerbread Man uneasily.
“You won’t be able to catch me!” he told the others. “I am too fast for all of you! I will finish really quickly!”
“Really?” one of the other competitors scoffed. “We will see about that! Biscuit boy! You don’t look like you’d be fast. Not with those doughy legs!”
“Yeah!” began another. “Look at his calves! They’re brittle, looking as if they will snap if you put any pressure on them!”
“I’m surprised you are even competing with us men!” said the first man who had spoken. “Seeing as you don’t have a winky!”
“Yeah! Who is this freak?” one of the others addressed the race organizer. “And why have you foisted him on us?”
“Everybody is welcome here!” explained the race organizer. “As long as they limit the amount of smutty innuendo that leaves their lips.”
“He hasn’t even got lips!” laughed another. “Just white icing.”
“They are my lips!” said the Gingerbread Man.
“Lips of white icing?”
“Yes of course! I bet you’ve had something gooey and white on your lips.”
There was another uncomfortable silence among the group.
“Is he referring to…” one of them broke it before tailing off in exasperation.
“Before licking it off and swallowing it,” added the Gingerbread Man.
There was another eerie silence.
“Right! That’s it!” the event organizer produced the starting gun and handed it to the Mayor. “On your marks!”
All the ‘athletes’ went to the start line and stood behind it. The Gingerbread Man was beside himself with excitement.
“I will win you know!” he boasted to the others. “I could give you all a big head.”
“What?” they collectively cried.
“A big head start!”
“Right…” they regarded each other in confusion.
“And I would still be able to come inside you all and climax first.”
“He’s a wrong ‘un and no mistake,” one of the runners told the others who all hummed in agreement.
“Come inside us all?” one of the Gingerbread Man’s fellow racers wanted some clarity.
“Yes! Take you on the inside!”
“Don’t you mean overtake us on the inside?”
“No.”
There were more mumbles of discontent.
“I’m just glad this isn’t a marathon,” said one. “Imagine listening to this filth for several hours.”
“Right then gentlemen,” began the race organizer. “And Gingerbread thing! This is a cross country race where you must follow the route marked out by flags in the woods. The distance is five miles and the route is through the woods before reaching the river which you will run alongside before heading back here and to this same line where whoever passes through the tape will be the race winner.”
“That’ll be me!” declared the Gingerbread Man in a shrill voice.
“Now, the rules!” said the race organizer as the Mayor stood by him with the starting pistol. “Run the full distance. There are race marshals in the wood and by the river who will notice anybody ducking into the undergrowth and trying to double back or any other such skullduggery! Secondly, attempts to distract or maliciously act to the detriment of a fellow athlete will mean immediate disqualification. And that includes making lewd and inappropriate remarks to your fellow competitors.”
Everybody stared at the Gingerbread Man.
“So good luck everyone!” continued the race organizer. “There are two refreshment points on the route with water and fruit! Get ready, on your marks, get set…”
“Is that a pistol you are holding?” the Gingerbread Man suddenly asked of the Mayor.
“Of course it bloody is,” the Mayor cried, his finger hovering over the trigger.
“It’s very big.”
“What?”
“Does it only go off once a year?”
While gritting his teeth, the Mayor raised the pistol in the air and pulled the trigger.
The runners all hesitated as there was no sound from the starting pistol.
“Mayor?” frowned the race organizer.
“Ooh dear,” the Gingerbread Man smirked. “Does that happen very often?”
“I must have loaded it wrong,” said the Mayor examining the carousel of the pistol before clicking it back in. “That’s it. Should work fine now!”
The shot echoed around the village as the runners all dashed off into the woods. The Gingerbread Man immediately hit the front of the group.
“I am a little worried,” said the race organizer. “That we have let many of the men of the village go off into the woods with that dreadful Gingerbread creature.”
“I am sure they will all return in one piece,” said the Mayor.
“But what will their mental state be?”
“Come on!” yelled the Gingerbread Man. “Harder! Harder!”
“Don’t you mean faster?” panted the ironmonger who was a few yards behind the Gingerbread Man.
“I know what I mean! You men are far too slow! You’ll never get anywhere at this rate!”
“The speed you’re going!” gasped the ironmonger. “You’ll never come first!”
“I could drop back yards behind you all and still come first!”
“You need to watch your mouth!”
“Run, run as fast as you can!” he said in a sing-song voice. “You cannot catch me! I am the Gingerbread Man!”
“We could eat him!” suggested the butcher who was running just behind the ironmonger.
“I bet you’d love to eat me!” squealed the Gingerbread Man. “I reckon you’d love me inside your mouth!”
“Would anybody miss him or it or whatever this creature is?” wondered the ironmonger. “If we hid the evidence by eating him?”
They were now deep in the wood, running through a wide clearing between the oak trees. The group was gradually thinning with the Gingerbread Man at the front and the village carpenter at the rear about thirty yards back.
“I don’t think I could eat all of him!” proclaimed the butcher. “He’s very big.”
“You bet I am!” the Gingerbread Man told him with a wink.
“We could all do it,” replied the ironmonger. “Everyone could eat him.”
“All of you!” cried the Gingerbread Man. “The more the merrier. Form a queue!”
“Listen to him!” the ironmonger spat. “He’s got the audacity to goad us!”
“You actually want us to eat you?” the butcher said with surprise.
“Oh yes!” the Gingerbread Man enthused. “I can’t wait to feel your mouths round me!”
“Do you know what?” spoke up the Chaplain who was experienced in such matters. “I don’t think he means for us to actually eat him. Not in the literal sense whereby we would digest him.”
“No?”
“There would be a certain amount of swallowing though!” said the Gingerbread Man excitedly.
“Are you saying?” the butcher eyed the Gingerbread Man in disgust. “That he means…I don’t think I can say…especially not to a man of the Church.”
“It’s okay,” shrugged the Chaplain. “I am a man of the world you know.”
“Yes but…” stammered the butcher.
“Do you mean,” began the ironmonger. “He is referring to….to…what my wife does on my birthday?”
“I suspect so yes,” the Chaplain nodded.
“What?” frowned the carpenter who had joined the conversation. “Give you a cake with candles on it?”
“Not quite that, no,” replied the Chaplain.
“Would you swallow me?” continued the Gingerbread Man. “In little bits or in one go?”
Unfortunately, any plot or attempt to ‘eat’ the Gingerbread Man subsided because he was sufficiently quick enough to stay ahead of them all and out of harm’s way.
They reached the refreshments table which contained several glasses of water along with chopped up bananas. The Gingerbread Man didn’t take any but briefly ran on the spot as the others stopped to eat and drink.
“Is this all there is to eat?” he whined. “Just carbs?”
“We are running a race?” pointed out the ironmonger.
“I prefer protein…” said the Gingerbread Man prior to running off.
“He is one strange little fellow,” the Chaplain shook his head.
They followed in his tracks but the Gingerbread Man, it now appeared, had been correct. He was indeed too fast for them and the ironmonger in second place was ten yards behind him.
“There’s a big gap emerging!” cried the butcher.
“I bet you love a big gap!” yelled back the Gingerbread Man. “You dirty little devil!”
“We’ll have to work together to close it,” said the butcher, increasing his speed and overtaking the ironmonger.
“I bet you’ll like trying!”
“You know what,” began the Chaplain. “I don’t think he’s referring to the distance between us and him.”
“No?” the carpenter asked.
“No,” sighed the Chaplain. “I think he’s alluding to something we used to do in the Rectory.”
“What? Pray?”
“I bet you love popping in and out of the Rectory!”
The reader can probably guess who said these words.
“The problem is!” panted the butcher. “After this race, we can forget all about him and just ignore him. But imagine how embarrassing it will be at the finish line if he comes first?”
“I always come first!”
“Oh shut up you horrible creature!”
They reached the flag at the riverbank so that they turned right and ran alongside the river past several marker flags.
“Run, run as fast as you can! You cannot catch me! I am the Gingerbread Man!”
However, the bragging from the Gingerbread Man was something he would soon regret because his voice had caught the attention of a large fox that was in the undergrowth. A large, hungry fox.
On spying the Gingerbread Man, the fox licked his lips before emerging from the bushes and appearing on the riverbank in full view of the runners. Within moments he was chasing the Gingerbread Man who initially didn’t notice before the snapping jaws of the beast alerted him to the danger.
“No! No!” he shrieked, trying to increase his pace to evade the fox.
“Now he’s in trouble!” chuckled the ironmonger.
“Keep away from me!” screamed the Gingerbread Man, unable to find any humour in the situation for once.
The fox was every bit as if not quicker than the Gingerbread Man and managed to take a large bite out of his hip.
The other runners had come to a stop, watching on as the Gingerbread Man staggered about on the riverbank. The fox had paused his attack to chew on the gingerbread he had bitten off prior to swallowing it and deciding he wanted more. With a substantial chunk missing from his hip, the Gingerbread Man was struggling to stand up straight, let alone run and was vulnerable to the next bite which the fox took from his left arm.
“Shall we help him?” the ironmonger inquired of the others.
“I’m a quarter gone!” wailed the Gingerbread Man as the fox chewed away on what it had bitten off.
“Perhaps we should?” sighed the Chaplain.
“I bet you love having me in your mouth don’t you! You dirty animal! Swallowing away and licking me from your lips!”
To be continued in ‘The Gingerbread Man – Part III’
Athon 