Werewolf the Podcast: Fairy Foxglove and the Flower Fairy Faction. (Episode 194)

Fairy Foxglove and the Flower Fairy Faction. (Episode 194)

The Frightening Fairy introduces herself in her role as the spokesperson for the Flower Fairy Faction. We get a little introduction to her life, and her life is hard. It's a hard-knock life.

Werewolves and Professors are out of the loop this week, but I have an idea that Fairy Foxglove will be taking a part in their lives in a nominal way

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Transcript

From out in the cosmic endlessnessnessness. Shit, that's a hard word to try to stop saying. We zoom in on a not-so-bright star sitting in a boring bog standard solar system in the neverending (easier to say than endlessnessnessness) darkness.

I know, I know, dull so far. But dull is a lot of life, and you will see that is a hint, the life word, as to why we are doing this. And remember, we have not got where we are going yet. Oh, and this is no Douglas Adams rip-off, honest. You will see that we are falling into something a little out of his pantheon of premises. Give it a chance; it might be a really cosmic description, utterly out-of-this-world writing.

Right, now I will continue as we have established a reason for this narrative introduction. What do you mean we haven't...life, life. Jesus!

We fly past some spherical lumps being jarred off course by the gravity of the spinning masses. These are the planets.

Do we count Pluto now? I mean, it seems to change every now and again. I think I will count it.

We pass a bit too close to the seventh and largest planet for my liking. Its immense gravity well, almost makes us crash into Uranus. 

(giggle)

Oh, come on, we had to make a Uranus joke. 

Anyway, We came... very close to... Uranus.

(giggle)

Okay, let's get where we need to be.

We focus on the third planet, a blue pearl in the listener's imaginary eye. We get closer and closer, dodging the space trash that orbits our little world. Yes, this is the Earth. Which is mainly covered by water? Strange that.

We now drop through the atmosphere, which gets denser as we now fall toward our destination. A fluffy cloud layer hides any detail of the surface from us. We will not be able to see anything until we drop through the damp, watery clouds that somehow float in the sky. I think they are a conspiracy myself, water floating. Yeah. Okay. 

<Whisper> And people say that I have gone mad when I talk about the flying pig I see. I could intoduce them to Jeremy. You can't introduce me to floating water, can you?

We break through the cloud and find ourselves over a quintessential English forest, or is it woodland? Apparently, size does matter when it comes to wood... <pause> land! Why is the writing so smutty this week? Who is writing this?

(Mumble of editor)

Ah, him, yes. Makes sense now.

We break through the canopy of the trees and slow down dramatically as we take in the scene. The wood...lan The forest floor is covered in flowers, green Lycans, and mosses. 

Green Lycans?

(mumble from editor.)

Oh, not green Werewolves, then?

(mumble)

<sigh>

Anyway, this is the perfect fairytale scene. The bluebirds are screaming their threats and sexual libations. A Gnome sits with his silent G beneath a small home carved from a fairytale mushroom, watching the teeny tiny green Fairy as she does her work. He somehow has a small bag of popcorn. I don't understand that reference, but we don't have time to question why the Gnome has a small bag of popcorn. 

Erald, with a silent G, the Gnome, has to admit to himself that they work hard and are good at their jobs. Fairies, that is. Although, this is a job that he had never seen a fairy undertake before. It was interesting, and the popcorn was good.

Fairy Foxglove.

Give me the gold, you bastard! 

'I dona ave eet!'

'You owe me'. 

'I dona ave eet!'

Where do you think that I get this fairy dust from? Do you think it drops out of my butt? Huh? Huh?

'I dona ave eet!'

'Well, it sort of does, no, not my butt, but that's none of your business.'

'I dona ave eet!'

'It's a lot more complicated than shaking your butt. There are certain things we have to do, and they are not all pleasant. It's often a very uncomfortable sensation after you are empty. It affects your flight style.'

'Well, say something!'

'I dona ave eet!'

(Thud) (Ogre Grunt)

'The girls and I need that gold, and if you do the old enchanted switcheroo thing that you did before, I will, oh, I will, I will cut your balls off and beat you to death with them. Don't test me, you. Have you heard how people... things that cheat me are treated?'

'Ah, huh... nopey' 

I am standing with my dainty little, well-pedicured toes planted on the Ogre's chest. Bert was already a bit of a mess. He was a fairy dust freak—a glitter hitter. 

I could see it in his eyes, but a girl has to make a living in this world, and when you are six inches high and reliant on small children to keep you existing, you have to do what you have to do.

In this case, this was poor Bert. He was going to get done.

'I said have you heard about anyone who has ever cheated me?'

Bert shook his head. Those glazed, glossy, sparkly eyes betrayed the fact that he was coming down and that he needed a sniff. He tried to get one of his noses near my foot—disgusting dusthead. I teased him for a moment, letting him think I would allow him to sniff the green sparkle that dusted my flawless skin.

Then, I dropped my body weight on him. He groaned at the impact. We fairies are dense. 

In reality, I weigh about fifteen grams, but we are not in reality here, and I had recently seen a not-so-nice necromancer that we were working with who gave me a spell that I could use when needed to provide me with the mass of a neutron star when required. 

It meant I became a veritable missile if I hit you when flying at top speed.

He did turn out to be a very not-so-nice Necromancer. 

Do you think there is such a thing as a nice Necromancer? Hmmm. Well. he was a bit clingy. I mean, we fucked a few times, but I was not interested in becoming his dread queen or whatever. He stank of formaldehyde. Had to go. You feel me, young bloods? See, I have the gangster chat.

Where was I? Oh, why am I a heavyweight fairy in all the ways that weight can be used as a metaphor?

You are free to make your own joke about my weight if you want, but make sure I don't hear it. I am insecure about my image and have been laughed at for eternity for being itsy-bitsy, cutey and sweet. 

I am not a fucking Teletubby, so to counter that, I have developed a dangerous set of skills to deal with those who now laugh at me. Skills that I like to use. I mean, I really like to use them.

There are centuries of pent-up aggression in this tiny but perfect frame. It has led to my nickname in the Fae community. "That fucking unhinged cunty killer, or fuck for short", 

I like that name a lot, a real lot. It suits me in all fuck; in every way, the word fuck has a meaning in a human's language.

But I speak Fairy at home. Do you know what fuck is in Fairy? Well, it's 'fuck', you idiot. Do you imagine that there is a word for fuck in Fairy? Really? Fucking humans.

'So Bert, this is how it goes. You have one option and one option only. I need you to pay, but instead of paying me gold, I have a job for you.

Now, it is not a nice job, and it's not an easy job, but it's a job that you will do, or I will not only kill you, but I will do it in a way that will haunt me for the rest of my life... and I have seen some awful torture and destruction of folk and most of that was thought up and done by me. I have given myself PTSD, so I am only hanging on by a thread so you will take the job. You will. You will. Won't you, Bert?'

Bert's eyes were full of tears and fears. He nodded but I again dug my tiny toesy woesies into his chest to make him a little more uncomfortable in the moment—the worst thing about doing this kind of thing. The beating, scaring, and murdering of those who cheat me is that it has now become such a rare thing for me to need to do. 

The only creatures that cheat me these days are the exceptionally stupid. I am not saying that Ogres are stupid. They are often as bright as a very dull... table. But Bert was not even under a table in comparison to the world's brightest tables. This particular Ogre could not get a participation certificate for an IQ test.

Let's describe Bert to those readers who have not seen an Ogre. And Bert is not short for Albert. No, his mommy wanted more for him, so they named him after her favourite philosopher, Bertram. No not Bertram Russell. Bertram Fishbarrel. The famous purveyor of fine fish. No 267 Hinkley Drive, Keithley.

She had once heard the shop owner spout some wisdom when she was in the alley behind his shop, where he would pass her his delicious bags of rotten fish guts.

'There are plenny more fish in the sea Doris.' This seemed wise and true. He should know about fish. So she thought him to be a true brainy person, well fish is brain food, and Bertram seemed the right kind of man to name her child after. 

Bertram, the fishmonger, not the child, knew Bertram's, the Ogre, not the fishmongers, mom as Doris.

Bertram's mom was called Doris in this case because she was really called Mrs Splatter Bitch. Doris rightly thought this would cause less offence in a semi-polite conversation being called Doris, not Splatter Bitch.

I'll be honest in my description of the Ogre. If you have seen an Ogre, in most cases, you would not be listening to this. You'd be dead. He is about erm... 20 feet tall and 20 feet wide. I would tell you in metres, but I can not be arsed. To be honest. Do the maths yourself, you lazy bastards

He is man-shaped... ish. Well, at least in the basic limb and head department. Two legs, two arms, and a single head. It's not always the case that they have a single head, but in Bertram's case, that was probably a blessing, as having two brains like the one our Ogre victim had. Would have made him twice as stupid. 

He is massive and looks like he is made from bits and pieces of the organic world. He is basically a pile of walking rubbish—Erm, garbage. Erm refuse. You can tell Bert is not doing too well health-wise either. He smells... well, he smells pretty nice. That is a sign in the Ogre world that he is not well. Oh, and he is going to get worse.

Before we continue torturing a towering fairy dust tooter, let me fully introduce myself. Oh, we have met in a prior podcast or two. 

I am thee, notice the double ee in thee, Fairy foxglove, and I have risen to the top of the Flower Fairy Faction through in fighting, fear-mongering and fucking my way to the top. 

I am a good fucker if I do say so myself. Hence the nickname.

The Flower Fairy Faction is not a Brand of toy dolls made by Hasbro or some Disneyfied bullshit film. We are the real deal. A true power player in the Fae world and a frightening" force may-joore" in the general world.

Once upon a time... There's another fucking fairytale cliche. Every fucker took the piss out of fairy kind. 

We could be destroyed by disbelief and general negativity. Einstein discovered general negativity, but he never got to write about it. We got to him first. Fucking fluffy-headed bastard. Not clever enough to escape a Fairy, are ya?

Well, there is only so long you can be a victim and a source of pity for children. Eventually, you have to take your existence into your own hands, which is what I am doing. I am that force for my sisters in arms... and wings. 

We run several things in the naughty fae world, and I will go into them because you are not going to tell anyone, are you? If you did, who would believe you? It would also get back to me, and you would not be sorry. You'd be gone, just gone. The forest needs fertiliser, and you make good organic fertiliser for my little flowers. 

As has been mentioned, we produce a sparkly dust that helps us fly. It is called foof pulveris. 

What we found out quite early in our lives is that the other Fae creatures of the world liked our foof powder and that they would capture and kill fairies to get a sniff of the foof. 

Of course, being the little cuties from the fairy stories, we did nothing but die in large numbers. What could we do?

We could get pissed off, and we could fight back. We did. We can withold our foof powder. I won't go into detail about how we erm excrete it because it is a bit personal, and there is a reason why it is called foof powder. 

We found allies in the fae world. They would be paid in our... powder for their help, and then we would slowly withdraw it until they worked for us. 

We supplied a limited amount of foof for unlimited power. Now we run this shit from behind the scenes whilst flitting through the fucking flowers.

We then extended our reach. We have to be friendly and be loved by the wee kiddies, don't we? We have to be believed in to exist.

You try to be believed in by kids who have access to porn on the internet as soon as they can hold a tablet. How many six-year-olds can access the world of drugs, sex and violence?

All of them. 

That means we needed to kick the innocent fairy bullshit to one side. No longer the cute and sweet. Now, we were cruel and sinful. We took what we needed and ... saved their innocence in the process. 

We took those children and saved them from a world of sin. Yes, we did—no porn, no sex, no drugs.

We took them from the orphanages. We took them from the problem families. They would have nothing but Just 100% belief in fairies. 

Tied in chairs and forced to watch Peter Pan movies on a loop. Oh, we are not heartless. We let them watch a number of different versions. 

We also keep them hopped up and stimmed out on relevant drugs. Foof powder does not work on kids. Well, it makes them fly, but that is boring, eh? We can all do that. Oh no, You losers can't, can you? Pathetic.

We protect the kiddies until they are 16 and then release them back into the world to join their kind.

Well, that's the theory. They don't usually live for more than a few months. We do try, though, to keep them alive.

We feed them and everything. We do. Quite regularly, actually. 

The fairy foundling farms are hidden quite well in the urban sprawl of human reality. It is not difficult to hide them. 

We found that with humans having factory farms for pigs and chickens, we can easily hide our own factory farms for kids amongst them. They look and smell the same.

I mean the factories, not the pigs and the kids. However, they do smell similar after a while, the pigs and the kids that is. And I believe they taste the same. 

Not being a carnivore, I would not know. Not something I have tried... yet.

We can also get rid of the bodies with the distribution service that the meat industry provides. Or feed them directly to the pigs.

Often easier. The tooth fairies are making great savings siveftting through pig shit for toothies than paying spoilt little bastards for bits that fall out of them naturally.

I find it a bit weird that they sift through the pig shit myself, but they say that they would find it hard to use pliers to rip them out of the dead kid's heads... Weird.

And do not think that is the end of the business. This is all recent in the Fae timeline. We are already talking with the vampire nation about having their food source as a by-product of the farms. 

Also, a lot of different dark arts need different body parts and bits for their work. We are always taking the business further and further. 

This time next year, this little six-inch high-green bitch is going to run this world, this Fae world. Respect the Fairy. Believe in the Fairy. Because the fairies believe in you, and that belief in you is dangerous. 

Now, let's get back to Bertram and his powder problem. 

I mean, I don't need to do this hands-on shit anymore, but I love it. 

I love getting thousands of years of anger and revulsion out of my system on other creatures—especially the bigger ones like Bert, who used to squash us for fun. 

Bert himself did for one of the Dandelion sisters. So I have a good reason to show the big dumb fuck no mercy. I don't need that good reason. The good reason is that I can get away with it and like it. Gibber, 

you fucking Giant. 

'You are going to grab someone for me, Bertram,' 

Bozzy

Well, that was an interesting few episodes, huh?' I was talking to the group sitting at the Faeton Arms bar. They all had their respective drinks, attitudes, and fear values. They would have made a fine high-level Dungeon and Dragons party.

There was the Professor, Wil and his Wolf soul Fen, Satan, and that Damn Fairy Foxglove. They had finished their song. (Check the Christmas episode). It was actually really good. I mean, they did Fairy Tale of New York, obviously. But don't worry about the tawdry lyrics of the original. This version had been rewritten by the same skilful and eloquent writer that is writing this fucking bit. 

They had been drinking heavily. Wil and the Professor had been drinking heavily for sort of mortals. I knew that Wil, with his werewolfy powers, could sobre himself with a thought, but that thought was the last thing on his mind. He was, and the Prof were... in this country, we say very drunk people are pissed. I know that the same thing in America means angry, but it means very drunk in the UK. These two were beyond pissed. How would we describe it... Hmm... wrecked seems like a suitable step up. Yes, wrecked describes them very well.

One of the reasons I like my pub, the Faeton Arms, is because it is the only place on all the plains where these characters could get wrecked safely... ish.

Satan herself had been sipping lightly. She was a class act, and I don't think that she is affected by alcohol in the slightest; she can not be. It just would make no sense, and if she did, she strikes me as the type of immortal monstrosity that would not drink to excess. 

The body she let me see tonight was, of course, my perfect fantasy. That's what you see when you look at the devil you see the thing you are most lustful for. In my case, she was a beautiful Persian princess—coffee-coloured skin. Long Dark hair, eyes the colour of a desert sunset and a tidy arse.

The professor, on the other hand, could drink himself into a coma. He had several times. In fact, I knew a couple of occasions where he drank himself to death. Being immortal has its benefits, I suppose, but according to him, even if he drank himself to death, he would still have the hangover for his night's work. That's a bit of a bastard, eh? God really knows his shit. His punishment for the professor was all-inclusive. 

He was the perfect English gentleman, perfectly tailored, perfectly groomed, with perfect posture and perfect politeness. I should hate him with some vehemence, but sadly, he was a great bloke.

And then there was the fucking Fairy. I hate fairies. I used to like them, and you would never find them in the pub twenty years ago. They were always out there helping kids when lost in the forest. Washing up in the night for Granny, flitting about... doing flitting things. I hear that they used to lay down dew as they flew. I don't know what dew is, but I would not lick a surface where it has been put, but they were... lovely. 

Then, there suddenly arrived in the unreal realm the Flower Fairy Faction. The rumours were rife, and the rumours were terrifying. Fairy dust was a much-used drug in the Fae world. In the past, the fairies were poorly treated to get it. Some of the stories were tragic, but things had changed recently with the arrival of the Triple F. The price of dust had hit an all-time high, and the Fairy's were in charge of it. The monsters that would make the Fairy's lives hard and full of fear were now terrified of the tiny winged women. Wide births were given, and the Fairy's knew it. They now revelled in their newfound power. I suppose you can't blame them. I think I would do the same if I had their history.

And this was thee Fairy. This was Fairy Foxglove, the most toxic and dangerous one of them all... she had not been drinking heavily. I don't know the word for the way that fairies drink. It is inconceivable that they can put away the volume of booze that they can. They are big enough to sit in a pint glass, yet their bodies seem to be able to hold gallons of the good stuff. I mean literally gallons of 43% proof vodka in her case. She was loud and lairy, and I would have to step in at some point.

Being the only landlord in the nether worlds meant that I had a lot of power. The worst thing for a Cryptid, fae, entity, or whatever was to be barred from the Faeton Arms. So, if I stepped in, she would need to listen. This is my place and my considerable ability with the old magic runs it. She was going to get telt, and I was going to enjoy it. 

.