Pooty and the Beast, Part Two

The Shittiest Princess is a series of funny fairy tales for those of us who ain’t exactly cartoon princesses. Stay tuned for a new adventure every week!  You can find the whole series here

The first part of this Pooty story is here.

Poot pulled out a hairpin and expertly picked the lock of the mysterious locked room that must never be entered but there’s totally not anything weird in there. She’d had a lot of practice opening bolted doors, for during her twelfth year she’d grown so painfully awkward her father had locked her in a tall tower for the entire annum.

The mechanism clicked open. Poot took a deep breath and pushed the door wide. A dark-haired man sat in a chair, facing away from her. “Hey, Reg!” he said. “Get your hairy buns in here — Gary needs some sugar!” The dude turned around, saw Poot, and dropped his whittling. “Where’s my beautiful beast? And what horrible thing are you?”

“I’m Princess Poot. My family gave me away to your… friend. Who are you?”

Gary stood and took a few steps toward Poot. He was fabulously good looking, with the kind of dimpled chin they write about in fancy books about billionaires and obstinate stable girls. His pretty, dark eyes were narrow sunrises set into his golden skin. “I’m Reg’s one true love. I used to date a lot of Italians, but I really hit the hairy jackpot with my giant fluffy wuffykins.”

“Aw!” Poot took Gary’s hand and led him toward the blue brocaded couch. “How wonderful!”

“Wonderful? All the other unwanted women who are dragged here got very jealous.”

“I’m relieved. I don’t have the penchant for luxurious body hair that you do.”

Gary flashed incredulous eyes. “Okay. But I think you’re quite odd.”

“Everyone does.”

Poot sat back and popped a bon bon from the nearby tray into her mouth. Halfway through sucking on it, she choked. “Wait a minute — how many other unfortunates have been here? Where are they now?” She gasped. “They’re not baked into these chocolates, are they?”

“Chocolates aren’t baked.”

“Raaaawwwwrrrr!” Reginald rushed through the door and grabbed Poot by the arm. “Rawwwrr!” he growled again for good measure.

Poot reared back and punched him right in the jaw. No big foot from the planet Bizarro was going to eat her! That had always been one of her life mottoes, and it seemed a stupid time to abandon it now.

Reginald’s arm fell away. She hitched her skirts and bounded through the door.

“Wait!” Gary called after her. He caught her up in the courtyard and tackled her into the browning grass. “We’re not going to eat you!”

“Are you going to force me into a sick sexual three-way?” Poot clutched her heaving bosom. “Because I might be into that, if I knew what to do. My father has all the good parts of dirty books redacted before they get to me.”

Gary rolled off her, and Reginald thumped onto the ground beside him. They held hands and gazed lovingly at one another. Poot sighed, for nothing had ever looked at her that way, except maybe for pizza.

“We let the girls go,” Reginald said. “With half of the gold their families give me. It’s a good income for me, since there’s not much money in beasting, and the women are usually happy to get away from their asshole relatives.”

Poot’s played with the grass. “I can’t abandon Kingdomville. Why, my wife is there, and just the other day, we saved the kingdom’s women from being forcibly waxed by the state.”

Gary clutched at Reginald’s splendid mane of hair. “Those monsters!”

Reginald said, “We’ll give you the money no matter where you want to go. Just don’t tell the vile woman who sold you to us.”

And so beauty, Reginald, and Poot had a nice dinner together, and a lovely round of charades after. The following morning, Poot left on foot to trek back to Kingdomville, a ransom’s worth of jewels sewn into the linings and hem of her dress. She’d promised the boys that she’d bring Agnes by some evening for cocktails and Indiana Jones movies.

When Bucky asked Poot why she was back, Poot told her that the beast had rejected her for being too ugly even for him. Bucky believed this lie, for she did not understand that she herself was, in fact, the beast, and Poot the…well, not the beauty. But a damn sight better in every way that mattered. Except at dancing. Poot couldn’t dance for shit.

The end.

Next week, you can learn how to improve yourself to Princess Poot’s exacting standards in “The POOP of the Shittiest Princess.”

Published by

Lucy Woodhull

Lucy Woodhull is a novelist, humorist, parodist, and all-around geek. Her new venture is THE SHITTIEST PRINCESS, a series of un-fair-y tales right here on Persephone. You can check out her sexy, fun romantic comedies at www.lucywoodhull.com.

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