Free The Last of the Gullivers by Carter Crocker

nobkin?! He’s a Blefuscudian Lump!” (
Blefuscudian
, a term of uncertain origin, was probably meant as an insult to one’s lineage.)
    â€œPrecisely,” she told him, “and we both know it.”
    â€œYes, Dr. Knitbone, dear. I know it and you know it, but
THEY
don’t know it! Oh, the unholy
THEM,
the great unwashed rabble, the mindless masses, the ill-bred and easily led!”
    Hoggish had given himself a Nervous Stomach now and he took to his great sagging bed, calling for Knitbone to bring the pudding and quickly, dear, quickly.
    â€œThe other day, I had a long talk with Topgallant,” she said to him, soothing him. “I could tell he was uncomfortable being around someone of my intellect. So I took his hand in mine, holding it gently, you see, stroking it softly, as one would a stupid cat,” she said, she soothed. “I looked in his eye and what did I see, Hoggish?”
    â€œWhat did you see, dear Dr. Knitbone?”
    â€œI saw a man with the I.Q. of a worm!”
    â€œA
WORM
!” Hoggish gasped. “And not a smart one, I imagine.”
    The doctor nodded. “Not smart at all.”
    â€œWhy don’t the others see these things!?” cried Hoggish and his great gut bubbled and burbled.
    â€œWe see the truth. The others see what they are told to see.”
    â€œThey are dumb!” Hoggish wept. “Dumb, dumb, dumb!”
    â€œAs always,” Knitbone nodded, “your insights are keen and to-the-point.”
    â€œDrown the World! I should be Grand Panjandrum. I should wear the Golden Helmet!” He swallowed a wad of pudding.
    Knitbone nodded again and said, “The Golden Helmet was
made
for your head,” and she stroked that head as one would a stupid cat. “You are no one’s fool, Hoggish Butz.”
    â€œNo one’s!”
    â€œYou are cunning, clever. You are independent, a freethinker. Intellectual, cerebral!”
    â€œI’m cunning, clever, a freethinker!” he shouted. “I’m—I’m—those other things you said.”
    She fed him still more pudding and said, “I’ve been thinking, Hoggish, and I have come up with a plan. If you do as I tell you, the Golden Helmet will soon be yours.”
    â€œI will, Dr. Knitbone, I’ll
do just as you say!” said Hoggish, eyes wide and wet with joy. “Tell me, please! What is our plan . . . ?”

CHAPTER TEN
    THE GREAT DUNCH DUMP CONSPIRACY
    H oggish Butz leaned close to hear every wonderful word as she laid out her scheme in that quiet room on that cold night. In time, the Lilliputian histories would remember it as the Dunch Dump Conspiracy. For now, it was only Dr. Ethickless Knitbone’s nasty plot to remove the Golden Helmet from Burton Topgallant’s head.
    The scheme was simple, the scheme was this: Hoggish would begin chipping away at the others’ confidence in Topgallant, cautiously, carefully,
cunningly
—a biting comment here, some cutting criticism there, a few droll rolls of the eyes. He would undermine everyone’s faith in the man, stealthily and steadily, and he’d be so subtle about it, no one would know what he was doing.
    Then, with the coming of Spring, Hoggish would make his move. He would call for a new election—
anyone
could do that—and with some creative vote-counting, if needed, he would claim his rightful role as the Grand Panjandrum of Lesser Lilliput.
    The next morning, Christmas Eve, the Market was busy, noisy and alive with late shoppers buying up sauces and spices and all the overlooked things that make a holiday dinner. Fenn and Michael, even Myron, worked hard to keep up with the crowd. When the noon bell rang at St. Edwards, Fenn closed the doors and called Michael to the storeroom.
    Myron followed and Fenn turned on the lights and there was the red 21-speed from Gadbury’s. “Yours,” he told Michael.
    â€œ
Whatdoyoumeanhis?!
” wailed