The Well, Well,
"WELL, IT'S A HOLE AFTER ALL,"
"It's just, well, I remembered it being more… grandiose? When did we build a factory around it? Taxes, please? Do you remember?"
"I do recall it being around the time we tried to reissue Mr. Brass…" Taxes scoffed, "What a waste that was!"
"I shouldn't have listened to the Brothers… they ruined my vision," the Hatter shuddered, "I mean really, who plays with a toy that teaches arithmetic, that teaches subtraction and addition…"
"THE COPPER WAS JUST TOO EXPENSIVE…"
The Hatter looked at DEATH and furrowed his brow.
"I don't terribly want to think of margins right now," the Hatter hopped twice, "Not now or forever."
The three figures stood in a factory of brick, a castle of cogs and a portal of pearl: a well, a torn seam, a gate to a dream… the world from which Dr. Wondertainment first unfurled. It had been many years ago when he laid down his hat, he hadn't returned since his wallet grew fat.
"IS THIS REALLY WHAT YOU WANT?" said DEATH gazing off.
"I cannot stay here a moment longer. I cannot stomach anymore meetings and conferences and focus groups and lines going up, up, up. I'm sorry Taxes, you must understand." the Hatter tilted his head down to offer condolences.
"I understand." said Taxes.
"SO TIME WILL NOT COME?"
The Hatter's face soured.
"Time is the illness! Time is ill! It's Time, always Time, he is the robber elite, the thief, thief, thief! I have to be rid of him, I have to stay still, forever. I am so tired of moving. Do you understand?"
"WE ARE ALWAYS MOVING."
"Of course I am always moving! I do a little jig, I hold hands merrily, merrily, I fall down, yes I move, I move, but Time! Time moves too quickly, dances too fast, not a good party mate! Not at all!"
"So, home is better?" Taxes asked.
"Everything was better back then," the Hatter assured.
"NOW IS NOT THE SAME AS BACK THEN." replied DEATH.
"It will be the same. It will be safe. It will be fun. It has to be."
The three stepped towards the sightless pit ahead. Centrally located within the room, it whispered impolitely to the group: COME TO ME, FEED ME NOW, COME TO ME, FEED ME NOW.
"THERE IS NEVER A RETURNING."
"Why would I want to return to all of this? To fluorescent lights and spreadsheets?" the Hatter scoffed, stepping forward.
DEATH followed in step, floating forward.
"REMEMBER WHAT YOU WANTED WHEN YOU GAVE ME THE HAT."
The Hatter falls forward, down into the dark. DEATH follows kindly, as does Taxes.
The dark flurries around, with frightening speed, images of stuffed bears, folded paper planes, men in shackles and men in paint, of impossible candies and cavernous brains. Twisted and thorny vines crawled the walls of the pit, they reached out with teas and candies and toys, numerous small things, useless things, to peddle and whet.
These animate plants were keen to sell, to convince the Hatter all they need is right there, with papers and buttons and widgets and bells, everything he owned should be theirs, and theirs only. These are the vines he so longed to escape from, a final temptation as he falls down and down. Leave it all behind, he thinks, I will be free
Cards of hearts and spades and diamonds flutter past. A child's dress and a studded hat. A fluttering newspaper hovers in front of the three.
"The Queen is dead…" Taxes reads from the headline.
"The Queen is dead?" asks the Hatter.
"THE QUEEN IS DEAD." affirms DEATH.
The Hatter gulps as he falls and falls.
"Am I to believe that there's no set of laws?"
"NO SET OF LAWS?"
"No set of laws." Taxes mourns.
"IS THIS SO?"
"I think so." the Hatter said, "Can't be worse than being Incorporate!"
"I HOPE YOU ARE RIGHT, HATLESS HATTER. LET YOUR FUN BEGIN."
DEATH, Taxes, and the Hatter land suddenly in a pile of leaves and petals and mud with a heavy thud. The Hatter looks around, and sees great rigs and towers of splintered steel, each of them with a worn out sign: "PROPERTY OF WONDER BROS INC." These were the machinations of his former company, the fingers that stretched deep into the the glistening loam of Wonderland and scraped up chunks of congealed Dilly-Dally Oil.
"The rigs are still running?" Taxes asked.
"Yes, yes the Brothers remain intent on sucking the joy out like fat mosquitoes… I hate mosquitoes, they always spoil the tea… terrible company. Terrible company…" the Hatter shook off some dust from his coat. "I could do something so much better with all those gears and steel and- Bah! No, no, I have to stay on topic, yes… I need a smoke, probably… where are the alliums? Puff, Puff?"
"THEY EXPERIENCED POPULATION DECLINE DUE TO INDUSTRIAL ACTIVITY…"
"Tch." the Hatter kicked a pebble. "Do you think I'd mooch some oil off one of those?"
"Why not just dig some of your own out?" Taxes offered. "It's much more economical!"
"IT IS DRY HERE."
The brush surrounding the clearing where the three landed was wiry and dusty, tufts of purple, dead grasses and sticks and shoots. A well-trodden path lay ahead, seeming to venture into the taller fields of gregarious grasses, further towards the hills where the rigs shot out of the ground like indignant teenagers. DEATH seemed to be staring at the sky while Taxes and the Hatter deign go further into the grasses.
"Come on, friend! It's not a smoke without DEATH around the corner! Aren't you coming?" Taxes plead.
"No, no, surely he's thinking about abandoning me, just like Time did, and Mr. Burgundy… well, he'd be in bad company." The Hatter chucked a pebble at DEATH in protest.
"I'M NOT ABANDONING YOU, YOU COD! DEATH NEVER LEAVES." The pebble missed DEATH narrowly.
"So you're coming to smoke, then?" the Hatter asked.
"NO. I WILL CATCH UP LATER."
The Royal Roach
The grasses were dull, having suffered the drought of oil in the area, but still, they lived up to their name. The Hatter frolicked along the path through the grasses, eavesdropping on the conversations that flowed from the flowers of the gregarious grasses:
"I think I heard someone fall from the sky?" one of them chattered, hushed and suspicious.
"Is it more of the suited men? I don't like them, they're loud and they put up those ugly gray ladders!" another replied.
"Will you two grow a grain? Nobody fell from the sky, that does't happen anymore…" A grumpier grass protested.
"Some things never change!" The Hatter mused.
"Some things never change…" Taxes glumly echoed.
Though their purple and blue had faded, once candy-pink and teal, their propensity for gossip was still very much real. The Hatter, however, had a one track mind. Eavesdropping was fine enough, he needed to find something to puff. And despite his fixation, he noticed a vine reach out to try and trip him-
"Hey, mister, I don't recognize you? Are you the man they say fell from the sky, the great blue?" One of the grasses yawned. It grabbed the Hatter gently, intent on an answer.
"Has it been so long, so terribly long? I'm the Tea Party Hatter, I'm sure you must know of me!"
"No, that can't be right, you haven't got a hat. And nobody drinks tea anymore, that's for geezers!" the Grass teased.
"I haven't got a hat anymore, but it's me in the flesh-"
"Shouldn't we be finding some oil to smoke?" Taxes interrupted.
"Right, right, yes. I am terribly peckish, say, gumptious grass, do you know where I can find something inhalable, a hookah, some oil, something to smoke, kindly?" The Hatter asked, fidgeting against the vines wrapped around him.
"Something to smoke? I don't smoke-" The grass deadpanned. It unwound a wind to point up above, "-But they do."
It was pointing to one of the rigs nearest to the field. Within walking distance, to boot.
"Mads, they said the-"
"I heard, I heard. I don't want to go near those things, they're ugly, they're boring and they-"
"They have oil…" Taxes reminded.
"Fine," The Hatter waved his hands about. "We climb the rig. But I don't want to be caught by the suits! We better not be! Thank you, Señor Grassio, we will be off to smoke. I would invite you, but you're a bit, err- flammable?"
"Fine, fine! Leave! I never needed you anyways! I'm not into people-definitely-did-not-fall-from-the-sky anyways!" The grass pouted, and let go of the Hatter.
They clanked up the steps, wary of any signs of workers or surveillance, but this rig seemed to almost have been abandoned. It was dusty and draped in disrepair- very little signs of present activity, and it certainly wasn't actively drilling. It was a few minutes of spiraling up the scaffolding before they reached the top of the rig, a large set of platforms wrapped around the extractor, the terminus for the pipes that permeated the wondrous soil below.
Taxes immediately rummaged around the spare barrels and tins designed to store the oil, but the Hatter simply rested against the rusted rails and looked out at the stretched of wooded expanse ahead of the rig. Clusters of colossal flowers and mushrooms dwarfed by the towering rigs, distant fields of dull gray death from where his fingers had touched, and further off, no doubt, his old stomping yard.
"Here we are, then! I found a tin, filled with oil. Have you got a pipe already?" Taxes asked, producing a crumpled metal tin, tarnished and browned.
The Hatter pulled out a plain glass pipe and lighter. He absent-mindedly handed the pipe to Taxes, who filled it with the pearlescent fluid. It took a few attempts to get it to catch, but eventually it did start smoking, producing dark purple fumes with dazzling glimmers of light speckled throughout.
"Why did I have to leave this place?" The Hatter coughed, sputtering out smoke.
"No clue. But it looks like things have happened in your absence."
"What do you mean?"
Taxes turned the Hatter to the other direction, pointing off in the distance where a faint city lay. The Hatter squinted, forcing his eyes to comb the horizon: A castle town, crumbled and abandoned, but most importantly, stamped with regal emblems that had ruled over his world so long ago.
"The queen is dead…" The Hatter mumbled to himself.
"I believe so, yes!" Taxes replied, blowing circles.
"I could be King…" Hatter muses, playing with a gear that had flung from a clock. "Kings get the best croquet mallets."
"You could be King!" Taxes agreed.
There is much to be done.
The Proper Politics
The Cupmaster is not typically a nervous man. Sixty years of service, sixty years of furnishing and stylizing all manner of nobility, of barons and dukes and even princes of hearts, and yet this, this was a time to sweat. The Cupmaster had never heard of the Hatter before the coup. Who wears hats anymore, anyways? In the aptly aforementioned sixty years, the Cupmaster had never done a hat.
Though, he hadn't done many cups, either.
Interpreting the purchase orders written by the Hatter and his council had proven to be a conundrum. At one point, he had been tasked with turning the luminous chandelier into a fully edible cake, perhaps to be dropped on the guests to celebrate the crowning. However, the Cupmaster managed to convince him of this impossibility, the ceilings had been lifted from 40 meters to infinity, and the Cupmaster was not very good at climbing.
Still, he had laid out a regal cloth upon the central banquet table, and ordered the finest of leaded glass instruments and utensils for eating. The drapes, he felt, we meant to match the cloths upon the table, for everything to be this harmonious tasteful, and subtly lavish production. It had to be made worth the attendees' time, what with the ordeal of navigating all of the labyrinthian halls installed at the whim of the would-be-king. The bears were constantly shuffling about, adding embroideries and buttons wherever a naked surface was found.
The Cupmaster was not fond of the bears. They were constantly frollicking and mucking about, the ones who laid the tile and grout, who toiled endlessly at construction projects, whose origins the Cupmaster did not know much about. They walked and danced and drew like children, with bodies of cloth and eyes of coal. But they labored away dutifully, efficiently, and loyally to the Hatter-King's goal. The Cupmaster himself was not nearly as certain. From generations of servants upon servants upon servants, he knew a cummerbund from lapel, a bergamot from mandarin, but he did not much care for the pastimes of infants.
Best bite his tongue-
"No, No, No- Lilac! Lilac, lilac, lilac!" the Hatter huffed. "What is wrong with you? Does this look like lilac? I want it lilac, not purple! My friends- Hate! Purple… but they like lilac, and I need lilac. No, happy, happy, happy- I'll do it myself!"
He shook his frock coat as if trying to rid it of something before producing a blade from one of his seemingly endless pockets. Gently folding the table cloth up and off of the table in front, he laid his hand on the table.
"I can assure you, your grace, we can find-" the Cupmaster panicked.
"Quiet! I am counting! Mathing! Shhh-" the Hatter mumbled to himself: "One, Two, Three, and-!"
In quick, quiet fury, the blade falls, briskly severing one, two, three fingers from the Hatter's right hand. A brief wince and sharp inhale is all he produces before the fingers are plucked and plopped into his mouth agape. The Cupmaster shrieked, fraught with horror and confusion.
"Not as good," the Hatter says between chews, "As ladyfingers-"
He spits out the chewed mass he had collected against his cheek onto the floor. Once flesh, now a sticky clump of sparkles.
"Chop-chop! Our friends will be here any day now!" He says, before kicking the clump down the hall a bit. The Hatter curtsies and looks expectantly at the clump on the ground- "Aha!"
It twitches and grows, and somewhat glows- creases become valleys and valleys become curves, and as it increases in size, it contorts until a silhouette springs forth, garnished neatly- with two little eyes. From the speck of sticky Wondergunk, comes another one- complete with an elegant frock and hat, much like the Hatter's own.
"Dr. Styletainment- No, we'll work on the name later… you must work quickly, dress the hall, please, please, and!" the Hatter looks at the Cupmaster with boredom, "Get this thing something to wear."
"What's wrong with my suit?" the Cupmaster frowns.
"It's dated." The Hatter and his new yes-man say in unison.
"New, new, new, everything must be new! Shiny, buttons! Joy, Joy, Joy! Out with the old, out with the hearts and clubs and spades and diamonds- well, I'm okay with diamonds. But everything else, new, better, funner! Do you understand?" The Hatter points at the tablecloth. "This must go."
"It's too dark for the room, reminds me of elephant tongue. That's not what you want, is it?" the yes-man asks.
"Yes, yes, exactly! It's too, elephant-y! That's exactly it. You understand it! Flawless! Great work! Take care of that while I go do very important things!" the Hatter scatters off, up the stairs, suspended in a flurry of scurrying builder bears, each carrying out the various agendas set by the yes-court, the whims of the soon to be king. The tallest order of all, fixing the dullness, the drabness, the not-at-all-wondrousness, that had to be carried out before the crowning.
The Hatter cared not for the architecture of buildings, and so the avatars severed from his being were tasked with draping the halls and corridors and buttresses with towering mountains of cloth, fabric, plaid, with gears that turned large clocks and springs, with rooms that popped like jacks in boxes, with a crown at the top of this citadel designed to mirror that which would soon rest on the head of the Hatter, one that waived away Wondertainment, and instead, promised nothing but autocratic wonder.
"Oh good, you're back!" said a man much like him, save dressed and colored flat. "There are matters to discuss," said Bureautainment, anointed Wondercrat. The Hatter, the King, waves his hands:
"It is slow, it is slow, it is far too slow. Who is leading the bears? Look at my fingers! I said lilac, and he brought me purple. Not even tyrian purple! It's too atomic, too atomic. All of the friends, all of the friends-"
"Well, I wanted to convene, there are matters at hand," Bureautainment decried. If the Hatter must reign, so too must the king meddle in matters of land. "What of the brothers?"
"Let them eat cake! But the macarons are for VIPs, only. Very Imaginative People! That they are not," The Hatter yawned. "What a boring idea."
"Do we send an invitation?" the Wondercrat asked, troubled trenches forming on his face.
"No," said the Hatter, "It'd be a waste!"
"Well, then, I guess we should make do." the yes-man resigned. "The builder-bears have made steady progress on the changes to the castle, which should be done in time for the coronation-"
"Unbirthday Ball." The Hatter corrected.
"Unbirthday Ball, right, yes. My apologies."
"You are humbly forgiven. Please hurry, though. I need to rest. It's such hard work today!"
"Well, there are some troubles, the head helper of the builders asked, is it so necessary to have the clock tower built of clocks? His brigade talks of bricks, since clocks have less stock… The tower that rests on a jack in a box, well, that was no task, but the builder bear barracks grow weary of clocks."
"It's non-negotiable, I fear. They will have to make do. Clocks clog time…" The Hatter frowns. "Everything will be perfect, everything will work perfectly. This is perfect."
"Of course, my liege." The Yes Man recuses himself.
The Hatter paces in figures of eight.
"WHAT'S THE FUSS? AREN'T YOU HAVING FUN?" DEATH looms over his shoulder.
"They're all a bunch of idiots. I-D-I-O-T-S! Capital S! What did they all do without me, without their King! The sanest of them all, me, yes, me. Why don't they get it?"
"YOU'RE NOT QUITE THE MAN WHO SAT IN THE SAND…"
"No, not quite, but I will be, soon. Soon." The Hatter sighed. "Tell me, dearly departed, what color must a banquet hall be draped?"
"SUBURBAN BEIGE."
"Lilac, of course- No! Beige? Are you some sort of calvinist now, then?" The Hatter scoffed, pacing in circles.
"TIME ASKS OF YOU."
"Time-" The Hatter squints, "Is on holiday. What matter of it to me? The King!"
"SHOULD I TELL TIME YOU'RE HAVING FUN WITHOUT HIM, THEN?"
"I suppose. But do not invite him to the ball. He will spoil the madeleines."
DEATH leaves, floating through the window and off the sill, having suffered the gloating past his fill- the Hatter waves goodbye, pacing again in his room. That DEATH still hung around, even now in this world, that Time still asked for him, it loomed in his mind. Through feverish whimsy, the thoughts linger, forming…
"What of my subjects?" The Hatter mutters. He wanders again where DEATH did us part, surveying the land unfurled from his fort: the pastures, the parishes, the mercantile carriages- the land of which his finances had greedily disparaged. What of the people who knew not of toys, the labor that supplied him with oil? Should we all not be partiers?
Time is not here now. Time does not reach here.
He laughs.
"Let there not be a single article of boredom, here in Wonderland, from this day on! Taxes can rot! Time can rot!"
Once was a queen, once was a king, now only lies the ruler- the King of all the Tarts. And everyone loves tarts.
The Coronation
It had been a splendidly lurid affair, with attendees from all corners of Wonderland in attendance. The Blue Catterfly had even traveled to the ball, despite his advanced age and infirm, and was happily huffing away at the all-you-can-smoke Dilly Dally & Hashish bar, stocked with the finest inebriating agents from the flipside- exotic earthly substances that could kill the sludgiest of Wonderlandian hookah den denigrates.
The decorations, rightfully amended to suit the fine tastes of the soon-to-be King, were the embodiment of peace and joy- especially the balloons, provided in-kind by all those found guilty of First Degree Sternness in the recent weeks, sentenced to gleeful inflation! The idea had been suggested by Taxes as a more budget-friendly alternative to importing Swiss Clouds from the skies of Basel. The Hatter protested at first, but eventually turned around on the basis of combining opposition suppression with decoration- he quite liked the look of the balloons.
Monsieur Jacquisine Smythingfarfarawelli had been hired as caterer, providing the most exquisite pastries and desserts. There was to be- per order of the King- only sweets and desserts, with the exception of pea and lamb aspic, an old favorite of DEATH's. There had been sword-swallowers, fire-eaters, and the builder-bears had graciously provided many sets of jacks-in-boxes and cloth-mime bussers, complete with human leather (source unsourced!)
"You know, I knew him before he was famous," Taxes said to the Haberdasher and his wife.
"Really? What was he like? I must confess I hadn't heard of him before he announced he was taking the throne!" The wife replied. She was dressed in a beautiful satin gown, studded with star-shaped sequins and tailored to effortlessly accommodate her visage above the bust- the neck and head of a yellowtail snapper.
"Well, you see, he has always been industrious and social, yes, a hedon indeed!" Taxes gloated.
"It will be good for business. The textiles here are immaculate!" The Haberdasher marveled, taking a swig of the Braggadocious Brandy he had been rather keen of the entire party.
"Immaculate!" His wife parroted.
"Immaculate," Taxes embellished, "And very luxurious. It was not cheap setting up this ball, not cheap at all, but I helped put it all together, yes!"
"Very impressive." The Haberdasher agreed, as did his wife.
Taxes had been running around entertaining all of the guests and visitors. Though there was a vast array of knick-knacks and treats and pleasantries, he still felt it prudent to fraternize with all of the future citizenry. However, the main event, the coronation proceedings, were due to begin any moment now, and he was hesitant to delve terribly deep into any one conversation, lest he miss the start of the ceremony. This was, of course, his trusted responsibility, as one of the Hatter's longest and most trusted friends- a seat in the Yes Court was not nearly as fitting, nor a coveted ministership- yes, this was the most important place Taxes could be.
"Attention all partiers, revelers, and future subjects of his majesty: please welcome, to kick off this Unbirthday Ball: the Unbirthday Ballet, presented by Misters Tumble and Twirl!:" The Yes-man of the Ministry of Petty Complaints had been tasked with leading the ceremony and attention-seeking. The opening act, a dance performed by two Little Misters, never released, was to be watched by all attendees before the king was to be crowned.
Mr. Tumble, a fragile, crystalline man, performed his acrobatics with grace and anxiety. Mr. Twirl performed his contortionist act with freakish delight, and the crowds ooh'd and ahh'd at the mystical balance between the two's movements.
Taxes paid acute attention to every reaction, scanning the faces for signs of boredom and sternness- signs of future dissent. Instead, the two misters carried along, wowing the crowd and finally climaxing with Mr. Tumble cascading from atop the chandelier and shattering on the ground- with the onlookers gasping aloud.
Mr. Twirl then produced a bejeweled dustbin and broom, sweeping Mr. Tumble's shards up, and gathering them into a tumbler. He shook the tumbler back and forth, gently spinning and twisting upward. At last he release and flung the contents to the floor, revealing a tiny Mr. Tumble, perfectly intact.
The audience applauded and marveled and gasped. But Mr. Twirl waved his hands, a flourish to silence, and proceeded to slowly twist inwardly outward with bombast and violence. His arms intertwined, rubbery like jello, he turned into knots, ties, and then a giant birthday bow. Mr. Twirl continued stretching in all different manners, before exerting himself for the final act: he tied and tied, and knotted and knotted, and tangled and twirled into a great big rubber ball at least three ceilings tall.
The crowd erupted into hysterical applause.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, those were our astoundingly talented Little Misters Tumble and Twirl: can you believe that they used to work a boring corporate job?" The Yes-Man of Petty Complaints commended, drawing attention back to the ceremony. "But now: the moment we are all here for…"
Up above, a Yes Man gulped.
"Is this really what we want?" whispered the Minister of Bouncy Fortifications to the Hatter.
This Yes Man, like all others, was concocted from a severed finger of the Hatter, a spitting image of the magnanimous soon-to-be-king.
"Of course it is, of course of course! The King gets the best biscuits, the best horses, the best games, yes, this is how it has to be. No more of the inane parties with the hares and mice and clocks and inanities, yes, this is where my life truly begins…" The Hatter glimmered, "Now, quiet, you, it's starting any moment now!"
A hollow, tinny drumroll began, and the chandelier above began to creak and croak, before suddenly free falling towards the banquet table below. The crowds shrieked and panicked and froze before the chandelier stopped with just inches to go. The lights went from a dull flicker to bright fluorescent blue, purple, and green.
"Ladies and Gentleman," The Yes Man Below continued escalating intensity,"Your new king, the best king, the Sanest King!"
The Chandelier had now revealed itself to be a platform with a golden studded throne, a throne where the Hatter was eagerly seated. He was surrounded by the rest of the Yes Court, who waited in place.
DEATH lurked just behind the Hatter, with a crown fashioned of pink and green plaid in hand. He lifted the crown, just above the Hatter's head, as the crowd's rapturous applause reached a feverish pitch.
"ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT THIS?" whispered DEATH.
"Yes, yes, the people are raving! Let's give them the show that I want! Hurry, hurry, hurry!" The Hatter anxiously fiddled with the armrests.
DEATH shrugged, and unceremoniously plopped the crown on the Hatter's matted hair. The crowd roared.
"Yes, yes, my adoring new subjects, young and old, pink and not-so-pink: It is I, your king, your most bestest belovedest, it is time now, for me to take the helm, the heaviest hat of all, the crown, the crown of all of Wonderland, yes, yes, please keep clapping, keep clapping from the tackiest chateau to the dingiest town!"
The Hatter, now the king, stepped off the chandelier and onto the ballroom floor. He waltzed towards the curtain that concealed the Great Unbirther.
"And now for my final act as a simple man, now, great subjects, I take the throne, I take the titled: I will be unborn, yes, turned anew, I will be unborn from a simple Hatter into what I always knew, your most excellent, wisest, handsomest, fairest, justest, humblest, and most importantly: your Sanest King!"
The Hatter pulled down the curtain with a theatrical flourish.
"ARE YOU HAVING FUN YET?" asked DEATH, poking from behind.
The Hatter simply ignored, and let himself be baptized by the candy-pink flesh.
