“It seems low of you, indeed, oh Black-Hearted Beard of Blue, to think so lightly of the
value of any woman. Are we not indeed more than what mere looks reveal? But I forgot, you
only value that which glitters and sparkles. Things of passing beauty, not of lasting worth. You
cannot take these with you when I make you walk the plank!”
“Even things of gold may appear gilded, but reveal the truth of their value by their
weight. See? Your princess is near weightless, and I would add, rather hollow in the head.”
“Perhaps you can only see worth in beauty or intelligence. I seek beauty of a different
kind. That found in the heart.”
“Bah! Your Disney-prattle means nothing to me! I am Bluebeard the Black-Hearted!”
“I do not dispute it. For truly, your heart is as black as black can be.”
“You have impressive poetry for a mere tea-drinking plebian. I prefer the harsher stuff.”
“Oh, would you like hot chocolate? I can bid the servant to fetch you some.”
“No! I mean beer! Root beer! And ginger ale! None of this watery muck!”
“Fine. If that is the sort of tea party you would have, then that is how it shall be.
Henceforth, this is a tea party no longer, but a root beer party!”
“Aha! This is more my style! Bring on the ale!”
“Shall I fill your cup, oh Bluebeard the Black of Heart?”
“Thank you, Chrisa. Now! To the feasting!”
“Feasting? Why, Mr. Bluebeard! You quite forget yourself. I invited you a tea party, and
you have advanced it to a root beer party, and now you should have a feast?”
“Naturally! You would not dare deny me your fullest hospitality. Remember, I hold your
hostage in my care!”
“Hmmm . . . Well, then I suppose a feast it shall be. You know, I think it’s been more than
three minutes.”
“I don’t care! Let’s keep going. This is getting good.”
“If you insist . . . Have a crumpet, Mr. Bluebeard.”
“Oh, this is a fine crumpet, indeed, why—BLEH! Puh! Puh! Chrisa, you got sand all over
it! GROSS! You know the cat goes in here.”
“What, on this fine stretch of beach, yet untouched by human hand in the entire history of
the world?”
“No. In the sand-box. In our backyard. Yuck yuck yuck! I’m gonna go wash my mouth
out.”
“Feel free, my good sir. It would no doubt serve you well, with your sailor-tongue.”
“Why, you! You lily-livered-land-lubber!”
“Mom! Hahaha! Kyle’s gonna get me! Help! Oh! Sorry! We didn’t know you were on the
phone. Whew! Wish there was a sign she could turn on every time she was busy.”
“She could wear a breastplate covered in different-colored Christmas lights. She could
turn them on depending on what mood she was in.”
“Too complicated. How about just a light by the screen-door that meant ‘shut up’ if it was
turned on?”
“Do you really think we would notice either way?”
“Nah. But it would be funny.”
“Yeah. Hey, Chrisa, I still got Mrs. Nesbit!”
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