Romilda Ur-Sinus placed her fingertips against her temples and rubbed deeply. She recognized her students to be, by and large, a good group of children. They all quietly sat at their desks, rocking back and forth on the balls of their feet, fidgeting with whatever was in their hands, waiting for their turn to show-and-tell. But seven-year olds, she felt, shouldn’t be so entranced by the morbid and tawdry. Why were these kids so enamored with the seedy underbelly of it all, and why were they inured to it? Hannah, her wide eyes bluer than the sky, had brought in an old copper teapot. It had been a wedding gift to her great-grandmother before the woman’s husband used it to murder an Irishman who had been stepping out with his wife. Sweet, angelically voiced Preston had displayed the shrapnel that had lodged itself into his grandfather’s armpit in Hue. Even Cody, shy but with the heart of a poet, had decided to show and tell about a video his elder step-sister had produced for P.E.T.A.
Ms. Ur-Sinus raised her head as little freckle-faced Tela finished her presentation. “Thank you, Tela,” she said, and the ginger girl returned to her seat with her father’s World War Two-era lampshade. Ur-Sinus didn’t have the fortitude to right then instill in the girl an appreciation for the gross inhumanity of the object. Instead she turned back to the class. “Argossy?” she called. “How about you?”
The boy, all cowlicks and coke-bottle lenses, made his way to the head of the classroom. In his hand he held the loop at the end of a red leash. Waddling behind Argossy on the other end of the leash was a shockingly tiny bald man.
The boy and the diminutive man stood side-by-side before the files of desks. “For Show & Tell,” said Argossy, “I brought my pet midget. His name is Uncle Pappy. Uncle Pappy is not a dwarf because dwarves’ limbs are not in normal… pro… propur –” Uncle Pappy whispered into Argossy’s ear, and the boy continued, “– proportion to their bodies. He is three-feet five-inches tall, but he can become nine feet when the moon is full. Uncle Pappy is allergic to cats. His favorite color is green, but he prefers black girls. He speaks four languages and has wrought-iron kidneys. He killed a man with his… ret… retret –” Uncle Pappy again provided a helpful whisper, “– retractable pincers that shoot out of his wrists like Spider-man’s webs, but his favorite comic book is Doom Patrol. He can run twenty-five miles per hour and pass Doug Benson through his colon. He can play The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway on a comb and split an atom with his eyelids. On his home planet, midgets rule and ride hawktopuses into battle. I like Uncle Pappy because he is good and tells funny jokes. I think midgets are better pets than Muslims.”
Ms Ur-Sinus suddenly found her fortitude. She didn’t even bother to underline her shock with a protracted stare. “Argossy, I don’t know where to begin! First, Uncle Pappy, if that’s even his real name, is a human being. You can’t keep a human being for a pet! And Uncle Pappy is not a ‘midget.’ That’s a hurtful word. He’s a ‘little person.’ Now, should I give you an itemized list of all the lies you just told? Because other than your extremely offensive last sentence, everything else you just is physically impossible!”
Romilda Ur-Sinus’ head popped off her neck with the sudden snip of pincers.
Uncle Pappy whipped the pincers back into his forearm like a lariat. He regarded the stunned ranks of children for a moment. He then about-faced, dropped his pants, leaned over, and pushed.
Doug Benson’s head emerged with an audible pop. “Who’s up for a pizza party!?!”
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