The Secret to Apple Bobbing

"Ladies, gentlemen, and gentlefolks, I am nothing if not an honest man…” Vandebart intones, committing the words to memory as he enters the Soapbox. He had spent the day running errands while mentally writing and rewriting the narrative in his head, rehearsing until the words were burned into his consciousness. He repeats the statement again, this time with more emotion. “Ladies, gentlemen, and gentlefolks, I am nothing if not an honest man…”

     He walks up the few short wooden steps that lead to the stage—and freezes.

     There, standing backstage, is a large crowd of people. He can’t tell exactly how many in the fading daylight, but there are at least twenty individuals, all of them holding various weapons and none of them looking particularly happy. In fact, the only one who seems pleased to see him is the Hissi at the front.

     “Marion!” Bart greets, glancing nervously behind him. A massive Tonu is standing at the bottom of the stairs; an even larger Grarrl blocks the only road leading out of town. There’s nowhere to run to—not that he’s in good enough shape to outrun a mob in the first place. “What an unpleasant surprise to see you here!”

     “I’m disappointed in you, Vandebart. I thought you would’ve had the common sense to try and preserve what little dignity you had left,” he jeers, faking an air of indignation. “I suppose we have no choice but to do things the hard way. A pity.”

     He nods to a burly green Kougra on his right, who holds a length of rope and a good deal of animosity. The Kougra—Oscar, if Bart is remembering right—doesn’t appear to be very old, but Bart can tell from his body language that he’s spoiling for a fight as much as the rest of the mob is.

     “Easy, mate. No trouble,” he insists, holding his wrists out in front of him in surrender. Oscar gives him a look of disgust before shaking his head, though whether or not it’s out of disappointment at the lack of a fight or annoyance at the situation as a whole Bart couldn’t say. The Kougra sets to work binding Bart’s arms, typing the ropes with enough force to make his hands go numb.

     “Come on, Marion! Be reasonable, hm? How’s about we talk about thi—”

     He’s thrown face-first onto the stage.

     Bart rolls onto his side, a sharp stab of pain running down his snout. He can hear the audience roaring in anger and excitement, and as he sits upright in a kneeling position he can see that the Printing Press Pteri had taken him up on inviting as many people as possible. At least half the town or more is crammed in front of the stage—he can spy a few familiar faces in the crowd, including one of the tailors and the newsboy Wocky from earlier.

     “I understand you’re rightfully upset, but please, hold your anger for a moment!” Marion yells out. As Bart peers into the crowd, he can see that while most of the onlookers were riled up, not everyone is seething at him—he can see sympathy and maybe even concern on a few faces, an indication that his reputation with the townsfolk wasn’t completely diminished. Still, the likelihood of any of his supporters rising up on his behalf was about as likely as Jelly World’s existence.

     The Hissi waits until the noise subsides before speaking again. “I’m sure by now you’re all well aware of the rumors that have been circulating about Vandebart Biggsby here. I’m also sure that some of you may have had some lingering hope that those rumors were false. Unfortunately but not unsurprisingly, I must report that my search for information about Vandebart’s history turned up no records for the years in question. Undoubtedly, he burned all the evidence in order to cover up any evidence of wrongdoing.”

     “That’s a fat bit of rubbish! You stole those documents to frame me, and you know it!” Bart accuses, but his cries are drowned out by the din of the audience.

     Marion waves Oscar over. “Hold him still,” he instructs, pointing at the Gnorbu. Oscar places one large paw at the back of his neck and one foot on the back of his legs as Marion addresses the masses. “I think these lies and secrecy have gone on long enough. No more excuses! The people of Neovia deserve justice! Answers!”

     Bart strains against the rope binding his hands as Marion leans in close. “Is this what it was like when you were caught, Vandebart? Up on stage, with everyone calling for your head?” he hisses.

     Bart briefly debates between insulting him to his face or pleading to be let go in the vague hope of success. The latter wins out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear on Nox’s grave I don’t! How about you just let me go and we forget about this whole thing?”

     “Goodbye, Vandebart.”

     The Hissi takes hold of the brim of his hat, slowly, dramatically, so everyone can see. Bart closes his eyes, cringing, as Marion slowly lifts it up over the Gnorbu’s head. He holds the hat up to the crowd, showing off the front, then the back, then drops it onto the stage in front of Bart.

     No one breathes.

     No one moves.

     No one…except for Vandebart Biggsby, who erupts into victorious laughter.

     “Incredible! You really thought that would do something, didn’t you? You’re even more delusional than I took you for, and trust me, that’s saying a lot!”

     Marion stares in bafflement. “I don’t—how—?”

     Bart grins and nods at Oscar, who seems equally confused by the sudden turn of events. “Do you mind untying me?”

     Oscar glances from Bart to Marion, then back to Bart. “Sure, I guess. I thought you were—well, nevermind. Sorry,” he mumbles, effortlessly slicing through the ropes binding the Gnorbu’s hands with his claws. Bart stands, scooping his hat off the floor and making a show out of dusting it off. He tucks it into his vest as the crowd murmurs in confusion.

     “Good people of Neovia! Please, let me take a moment to explain myself. I am a simple concessionaire who has been wrongfully shamed out of spite. You see, the reason I’m so protective of this hat is because it belonged to my grandfather, may he rest in peace. And really, who wouldn’t duck out of the way when a crazy man—” he gestures towards Marion, “lunges at him out of nowhere?”

     The Hissi scoffs. “What reason would I possibly have for framing you? I have nothing to gain.”

     Bart keeps on talking as if Marion hadn’t spoken. “Now you might be wondering, what reason would Marion have for framing me? Well you see, I was born right here in Neovia.” He places a hand over his chest. “Early in my life, I moved to Meridell and discovered the joys of the food-based games there. Potato counter? Surprisingly exciting! Cheeseroller? A riot! And I thought to myself, ‘Why shouldn’t we Neovians get to enjoy entertainment like this?’ So when I returned to the Haunted Woods, I partnered with a produce vendor named Marion Hillsbury and set up my first apple bobbing stand at the Haunted Faire.”

     “However, I quickly found out that despite the fact that I was paying a premium for the apples, they were subpar quality. Some were rotten through, and some were even infested with worms. Worms! Obviously, I couldn’t have my loyal customers bobbing for such subpar fruit. When I confronted Marion about this however, he became infuriated and tried to charge me an even higher premium. Eventually I found a different vendor. Marion was obviously sore about losing my business, so he concocted this ridiculous plan to run my good name through the mud.”

     “None of this is true,” Marion interjects calmly, his eyes full of hate. “I worked as a coroner in this town most of my life.”

     “And how are you going to prove that, Marion?” Bart asks. His tone is innocent, unassuming, but there’s a huge smirk plastered across his face. “With the town records that aren’t there?”

     Marion opens his mouth to speak, but for once, he has nothing to say. Bart speaks for him. “Besides, his supposed background makes no sense! I’m sure you may have been too distracted by the rest of his claims to notice, but Marion claims that I lived in this town almost two centuries ago, died, and then came back to life. However, he also claims that he worked as a coroner, which is how he found out about my supposed crimes. That would mean that he would also have to be well over two hundred years old!”

     The crowd is still riled up, but for once, it’s not at him. Oscar growls and steps forward, rolling up his already rolled sleeves. “You dirty liar!”

     “You have to listen to me!” Marion insists, slinking away from the audience. “This is a trick! Why would I have insisted on doing any of this today if I knew nothing would happen?! I had nothing to gain!” But his objections are drowned out by the wrathful cries of one hundred-some angry Neopians.

     “Get out of here, Marion,” Bart calls out, making sure everyone can hear him. “You lost.”

     Marion hisses and lowers his head, glowering. He studies Bart, then the crowd, and slowly, his expression changes from malice to resignation. Without another word, he slowly slinks off stage and into the fog, hundreds of angry eyes following him.

     “Now, then!” Bart claps his hands, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Thank goodness that’s over and done with. To celebrate, how about half off of apple bobbing for the next week?” He laughs uproariously. “You see, that was a joke, because apple bobbing is always free!”

     ----------

     “Marion! Marion, wait. A quick question before you leave,” Bart wheezes, pulling his hat out from under his vest and placing it back on his head. He can just barely make out the silhouette of the Hissi amidst all the fog, which had thickened considerably over the last few minutes and blanketed the town, hiding almost everything from sight. He was lucky he had managed to track him down at all.

     Marion doesn’t respond. He holds still for a long, agonizing moment, as if debating whether or not to speak, before finally looking back his way. The mist is too thick to read his expression, but Bart can’t imagine it’s anything pleasant.

     “You know, Marion, you always seemed just a bit suspicious to me. I will say, though, that I thought your idea of digging through the historical records was a great idea! It was such a great idea, in fact, that I decided to do a little digging of my own, both figuratively and literally. And you know what I found? You. You were still there, Marion. You were right where I left you all those years ago, after you had the gall to rat me out. So I just have to ask: who are you, really?”

     The Hissi continues to stare wordlessly. Come to think of it, he didn’t look much like a Hissi at all, really, and Bart has to wonder how he was ever fooled. The cloudiness in his left eye has dissipated, leaving both eyes, yellow as candlelight, gleaming at him through the darkness.

     “I’ll see you around, Vandebart,” the figure says, and disappears into the fog.

     ----------

     The small bell above the tailor’s shop rings out a greeting as Bart enters. The space inside is cozy bordering on stuffy, with outfits sorted by size and species crammed into every available inch of space. Well-dressed mannequins stand guard in front of the windows, showcasing the latest Neovian fashion trends, while full-length mirrors reflect their stillness all over the shop.

     “Good evening, Vandebart!” Swolthy greets. He’s carrying one bolt of fabric under each arm, with a third gripped firmly in his tail. “What can I do for you this fine evening?”

     “Swolthy! Good to see you. Just thought I’d stop by and give you the payment I owe for the hat, now that that mess with Marion is taken care of.” Bart rummages around in his pockets for Neopoints as he speaks. “Is Mr. Prigpants in today?”

     Swolthy tosses the bolts onto the nearest chair. “No, I’m afraid he had to run out to the pharmacists. Apparently he came down with a nasty case of…‘blurred vision’ after visiting your apple bobbing stand earlier.”

     “That is truly strange! I’ve never heard of something like that happening,” Bart lies. He deposits the Neopoints into the Mynci’s outstretched hand. “Give him my best, will you?”

     “Of course. One moment and I’ll get your receipt.” Swolthy pops open the cash register and deposits the coins, then rips a tab of paper from a nearby notepad in one smooth gesture. He glances back at Bart, frowns, scribbles a few tallies, looks back at him again, continues writing, then looks for a third time.

     “Is something wrong?” Bart asks, grabbing a small apple from his pocket and shining it on his vest.

     “No, no. It’s just that…” Swolthy signs the receipt with a flourish and hands it to him. “Whenever you remake an article of clothing, there’s always going to be minor differences. For example, the stitchwork on your new hat is a bit finer than the old, and the ribbon trim is a slightly different color—not to mention we ended up using cashmere instead of felt. We of course did a fine job, if I do say so myself; most people would never notice the difference. But to a professional, such as myself, the two are like night and day.”

     Bart takes a bite of the apple before responding. “What’s your point?”

     “It’s just that…you said you were looking to replace that old cap of yours, but I can’t help but notice that you’re still wearing it right now.”

     Bart touches the worn brim of his hat, narrowing his eyes as the Mynci fidgets.

     “In fact, the only time I’ve seen you actually wear the new hat…was up on the stage, when you took it off.” And Swolthy locks eyes with him for the first time that evening, and looks with dawning fear at him and the mirrors on the walls, which show the hat, and only the hat, dozens of times over.

     Bart takes another bite and chews slowly, thoughtfully. He holds the apple up and inspects it in the dim shop light. “Let me tell you a little something,” he says finally, leaning in close enough to Swolthy that he can smell the overripe, vinegar-y scent of the apple on his breath. “There’s a secret to apple bobbing that many people don’t know, and I’d argue it applies to life itself as well. The secret is to dig your teeth in deep and never let go—ever.”

     He throws the apple aside and presses a small bag of Neopoints into the tailor’s palm. “There’s more where that came from. How about we keep this between us, hm? I know you wouldn’t want any trouble.”

     Swolthy looks at the bag for a long time, an unreadable expression on his face. Finally, he closes his eyes and slips the Neopoints into his pocket. “Of course, sir.”

     Bart slaps him on the back with an unnecessary amount of force. “Good man, Swolthy. Good man! Stop by for apple bobbing sometime. I’ll make sure you win something decent.” And as Bart leaves the shop, he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

     The End.