Write on Wednesdays: The Twelve Days of Christmas

The queen had been in a rare mood when he left the palace. She was whining and screaming that she wanted the Twelve Days of Christmas, and she wanted them now. What a brat. She had even thrown a stuffed teddy bear at him, which had luckily bounced off, but he was seething as he trotted down the steep mountain path to the village. The lurid pink silk banners in the palace gave him a headache, he continued to trip over blocks and dolls wherever he walked, and now the queen needed the twelve bloody days of Christmas too.

This was a day in the life of Figaro, the esteemed toy maker to the one and only, Her Majesty Queen of All Larynthia and Sovereign on High. He grumbled under his breath all they way down to the village, where he packed his bags and set off on yet another fantastic voyage to seek treasure for the queen. She was just a toddler, and here he was taking orders and scrambling all over the earth to find some stupid milking maids and pipers who deafened him with their spontaneous playing. On the boat, he to bunk with the turtledoves, and arrived on deck every morning spattered with poo and grinding his teeth.

The journeys never got any shorter either. Can you imagine spending seven years on a ship with a bunch of lunatics like dancing ladies and leaping lords? What garbage. Well, Figaro could, and with every year, his beard got grayer and his spirits lower. It was all the fault of those stupid geese. Where were you supposed to find a decent goose-a-laying, and laying golden eggs at that? He spat over the deck and thought long and hard about those geese. He needed them, after all. Figaro wasn't stupid, and he knew what the infant queen would do to him if he failed to return with the Twelve Days of Christmas. He grimaced at the thought and turned back towards the boat of calling birds, French hens, and drumming drummers which gave him such a headache.