A Literal Giant

 

            Maybe there’s some kind of reversal thing going on here. Maybe, just maybe, if a person, speaking loosely, of course, is above a certain height, Ralph’s strictures on admission to the Great Forest are of null effect.
            Something must explain what happened that day.
            Myron. Big Myron. That’s who I’m talking about, in this circuitous fashion. He was big, he was ugly, which of course is a matter of opinion. However, there is no record of anyone, not even his mommy, saying he was pretty.
            I suppose I should give some statistics. He was a good 14 feet from stem to stern. His eyes were green, his hair would have been red, had it been clean. His complexion was greyish pink. He looked like a, very large case, of poor oxygen perfusion in the tissues. I suspect that his breath was foul.
            He was born outside of Darrington, WA. In a cave.
            He fee fi fo fummed his stupendous way right into the smaller rougher meadow where Uncle Bob, Aunt Suzy, and now Jim, abode.  

            Myron was a singer, and played a mean, very large banjo.
            Hence, when he arrived in the snowy meadow, he found a nice place to sit on a fallen log and began to pluck his banjo. His feet were two feet deep in snow. Didn’t care.
            When who should appear but Jim, fresh from hanging around, eating cold grass, and being nice.
            Jim looked up at Myron sitting there, and said, “Who the heck are you?”
            “Behold, I am Myron,” said Myron, taking a break.
            “You have a very big head,” said Jim. “Much admire!”
            “You have a very large head too,” said Myron, and thereby their friendship was sealed.
            “By the way, what’s to eat around here, Jim?” said Myron.
            “Well, I eat grass. Are you, by chance, a vegetarian?” said Jim. He could see some bad potential here if the friendship didn’t develop right.
            “Nah. I’m lookin’ to eat some kinda flesh,” said Myron. “That’s what that fee fi fo fum thing is about.”
            Myron began plucking the strings again in the chilly morning air.
            Jim thought this was a good time to sing along.
 
                        I run like thunder,
                        Like mama said,
                        I am Jim,
                        With a big hard head!
 
            “That’s not too bad,” said Myron. “Have you considered forming a band?”
            “Me n Bob would like to, but we needed a musician. He’s a song writer. But you need at at least one musician to have a band, doncha?” said Jim, with furrowed bison brows.
            “Where is this Bob, song writer?” said Myron.
            “Walk this way,” said Jim.
            “I can’t really, I only have two feet,” said Myron. “But I can follow you. Are we going to see Bob?”
            “He lives in a house made in a stump with Suzy,” said Jim. “There was a musician. I never met him. Harmonica. Blues guy. But he’s off on a honeymoon or something.”
            “You amaze me,” countered Myron. “Was his name Maurice?”
            “Something like that, yeah. Liked Cream, I hear.”
            So, Jim followed his own trail through the disturbed snow back toward the Stump House, and Myron stumped along behind him playing a tune suspiciously similar to Washington Square. It didn’t take long. Soon they could see smoke rising from the area outside, but near, the big stump. Upon closer inspection, since he was so far up in elevation, Myron saw Suzy doing something over the fire.
            “I see somebody over there. Like a woman, all hairy,” said Myron.
            “Suzy. Bob’s Firestarter, I mean Keeper. She makes burned food for him.”
            “That’s called cooking,” said Myron. “I like her already. Fee fi fo fum time!!”
            “Meh. I like grass. Mama said to eat grass, so I do.”
            When Suzy caught sight of Myron following Jim, she started yelling, “Bob, come out here! I need you!”
            Bob stumbled out of the Stump House. He took in the scene quickly.
            “Oh, hi Jim. Who’s your friend?” he said. He was looking at the big banjo Myron carried.
            “Myron, a literal giant. He’s hungry and he’s a musician. Can we keep him? We need a musician for the band!”
            “Hi, Myron. I guess we better audition you. But first, do you want to be in a band?”
            “I do. And I am hungry,” said Myron. He began to rapidly pluck the strings playing one of his own compositions.
            “I like it,” said Bob. “Maybe we can do business.”
            Suzy had a cold left-over haunch of young buck, so with that for Myron, and a few of the fish she was just baking over the fire, everyone got some breakfast.
            “What shall we call the band?” said Bob, after breakfast.
            “How about The Big Head Revue,” said Jim, sticking to his main point always.
            “What about Bob Jim & Myron?” said Myron.
            “Let’s think on it for a couple of days,” said Bob. “OK?”
            “Is there a handy cave around here somewhere,” said Myron. “I like to sleep in caves.”

❄️👹❄️