The Hero Drank the Chocolate

The Hero Drank the Chocolate

April Fool's Day, 2004

In honor of Too-ticky.

Mr. Johnson stood by the stove waiting for the kettle to boil, hoping that this time at least the old maxim would not hold true. It did. Mr. Johnson sighed and walked to his living room to finish off the last of that morning’s paper. He had just got to the good part in the sports section, the part where duck hunting tactics were explained, when the kettle started to whistle. Mr. Johnson was not a duck hunter. He hated killing animals, hated eating duck, and couldn’t stand the sound of whistles. He didn’t know why he liked reading about the subject; it just seemed natural. He lifted the kettle off the stove, poured some of the boiling water into a cup, and put the kettle on a cold burner. Too late he realized that the chocolate packet said to put the ingredients into the cup first; Mr. Johnson put a tea bag into the cup and made another for the chocolate. Now he would be able to finish up the duck section in peace.

Mr. Franklin trudged through the blizzard up the hill, pausing now and then to check if the small cat wrapped securely in his inner pocket was still alive. The fifth time he checked the cat had died. Mr. Franklin knew this because he flicked the small cat’s whiskers and it didn’t bite his already bloody finger. Mr. Franklin put the cat down on top of a snow bank where he would find it the next day. Then he would eat it, for food was scarce in the valley even in spring, and if he did not eat it his neighbor Mr. Johnson would. Not that Mr. Franklin had anything against Mr. Johnson. In fact, it was toward his house that Mr. Franklin was slowly trudging. It was just that he liked to eat his own dead cats.

Mr. Franklin was a hero, and Mr. Johnson was his faithful friend. Mr. Franklin always walked into town in the hopes of being a hero. He usually succeeded, and consequently walked around town with a medal that said, “Official Hero of Fairington.” Mr. Franklin was a very humble person, but he knew that it made the locals happy to see the medal they had spent half the town’s tax money on. Mr. Johnson always knew to have a cup of hot chocolate ready for his friend at six o’clock.

Mr. Franklin came into view of Mr. Johnson’s window. Mr. Johnson hurried to open it for his shivering neighbor, who immediately shed his clothes and flung himself on a couch before the fireplace. There was no fire there now, but Mr. Franklin was a great believer in symbolism. Mr. Johnson hung up the soaked clothing and brought Mr. Franklin his chocolate. Mr. Johnson began to speak in hushed tones, fearing that his normal booming voice would cause the snow on the roof to come crashing down onto the frozen rose stems standing valiantly in the garden just beneath the window.

“I left here at half past twelve hoping to reach Fairington by sunset. The blizzard delayed long enough for me to make good time, and I had been sitting in the library for half an hour before the last red rays slipped beneath the high windows and plunged the library into darkness. I cursed the librarian for not lighting candles, and went about the room, bumping into bookshelves and tables before finding a match for the candle in my hand. I lit it, and saw a small cat staring up at me. I realized that I had not done by hero’s work for the day, and so determined to bring the cat here and nurse it back to health. The cat did not particularly want to leave its warm home, but I insisted, so it eventually agreed to come with me here. In the middle of the journey up the hill the cat died, so I left it on a snowbank to freeze for tomorrow's dinner. Now I’m here, and I must say that this chocolate is very good. Perhaps you’d like to come with me to do a hero’s work in Fairington tomorrow?”

Mr. Johnson replied that he would not, and that he was very satisfied to stay back and make hot chocolate. He then inquired as to Mr. Franklin’s choice of books for that evening’s entertainment. The two choices were Pride and Prejudice and Robinson Crusoe. Mr. Franklin chose Jane Austen’s classic work, so Mr. Johnson began to read to the great hero.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

Mr. Franklin interrupted Mr. Johnson’s reading to ask him for some more hot chocolate. Mr. Johnson got up to get him some more. Finding the kettle cold, Mr. Johnson put in fresh water and waited till it would boil again. Mr. Franklin picked up the newspaper to read in the interim. All that was left was the section on duck hunting. Mr. Franklin loved duck hunting. He found it to be one of the most exhilarating sports known to man. He loved killing animals, loved eating duck, loved the sound of whistles. Unfortunately for the paper though, he didn’t like reading about duck hunting. This was unfortunate for the paper, because they could not put an official “Approved by the Official Hero of Fairington” sticker on the duck hunting section of the paper.

Mr. Johnson returned with the hot chocolate and gave it to Mr. Franklin. He then picked up the book and read it out loud.

“Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.”

Mr. Franklin asked who the them in the beginning of the story had been referring to. Mr. Johnson answered that it meant the Gardiners. Mr. Franklin “Aah,” and then looked at the clock, saw that it was half past nine in the morning, announced his intention of going home and thence to bed, and also his intention of brushing his teeth in a particularly heroic manner. Mr. Johnson thought that all of this was a good idea, and accompanied his friend to the door. They parted ways amiably, shaking hands as Mr. Franklin said that he was sorry about the cat, but that he hoped it would be a good dinner the following day. “I’ll bring it to you before I go a’heroing tomorrow, and then you can make us a nice meal with it.” Mr. Johnson thought this fine, and asked what kind of wine he should baste the deceased in. Mr. Franklin decided on a nasty little chardonnay with hints of garlic and vinegar, and so the matter was settled.

The next day an express messenger ran to Mr. Johnson’s house with an express message. It read:

The Coroner’s Office
Today

Bad Tidings

To my dear Mr. Johnson,

I have terrible news to impart to you. I fear that it will cause you great distress, so sit down while you read this. {Mr. Johnson, being the best friend a hero had no need to sit down} [The letter continues] Your dear friend, the Official Hero of Fairington, has died being extremely heroic. He saw the ice crack beneath the feet of the post man, Mr. Billups, and ran out to help. He ran over to help, and jumping from ledge to ledge almost made it back to safety. I had just come out of my office, (I so dearly love to fish, and it’s so convenient) to applaud the valiant and heroic efforts of the great hero when he just missed clearing a gap and fell under the ice which immediately closed over his head. Mr. Billups catapulted to safety, but our great hero did not surface. After what seemed an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than 2 hours, we got an auger to investigate. His body was nowhere to be found, but we found his medal lodged in the crack. I have enclosed it here. The memorial service will be tomorrow at ten in the morning. Again, I would like to condole with you.

Mr. Johnson stood in disbelief. He could not cope with the fact that the Official Hero of Fairington had left his town without a certified icon. “No, he had been more than that,” thought Mr. Johnson, “He had been a veritable idol to which all looked up to in times of distress.” Mr. Johnson knew that his friend would have liked to have a simple memorial, but also that this would never happen. Mr. Johnson decided that there was only one way to properly remember his friend. He ate the cat, toasting the Official Hero of Fairington with the chardonnay it had been cooked in.