The Christmas Pig: A Very Kinky Christmas by Kinky Friedman Read Free Book Online Page A

king seemed to be taking his time. The boy might as well have been made out of marble. The court whispered and twittered with doubt and uncertainty. Feinberg privately feared that this time he might have overstepped himself. He’d made a career out of betting on the long shot and watching it come through. This time, however, he wasn’t so sure. Nevertheless, his future was irretrievably intertwined with the success of this peculiar endeavor. He was the one in the first place who’d introduced the king to the notion of the magical boy. He was the one who’d seduced the king into believing in the lad’s prowess. Sometimes, thought Feinberg, you’ve just got to play it as it lays.
    “Benjamin Welch,” the king intoned in a deep, stern voice, almost as if he were pronouncing a death sentence, “I hereby entrust you with the royal task of delivering a finished and satisfactory piece of art before midnight on the Eve of December 25, the birthday of our Lord. The art must be pleasing to the eyes of the king. Mr. Floyd Welch?”
    “Yes, your majesty,” said Uncle Floyd, stepping forward and bowing once again.
    “Does this young man, Benjamin Welch, understand the terms of the royal commission I am about to entrust to him? Does he fully realize that, if completed successfully, it will surely bring him great riches? But if he fails to deliver the work of art in timely fashion, or if his creation displeases the royal court, I will take it not only as an insult to my royal throne but also as an offense to the child who was born on that day.”
    “He understands, your majesty,” said the farmer in a clear voice.
    “If Benjamin Welch completes the royal commission successfully, the entire kingdom shall rejoice!” said the king. The gathered court greeted this pronouncement with an encouraging display of light applause. Feinberg allowed himself to beam beatifically upon Benjamin. Benjamin, of course, showed no reaction whatsoever to the proceedings.
    “If he fails,” said the king, “those responsible shall suffer the fate of a thousand scoundrels.” The assembled court shuddered as one at the dark thought. Feinberg’s face became suddenly almost as void of emotion as Benjamin’s.
    “It shall be done,” said King Jonjo, pointing his royal scepter directly at Benjamin.
    The boy did not flinch. He liked the royal scepter. It looked like it was covered with fireflies.

Chapter Eleven
Uncle and Son
    E ARLY THE NEXT MORNING the little wagon with its entourage departed from the gates of Eddystone Castle. There were no trumpets this time, for which Benjamin was eternally grateful, though, of course, he didn’t show it. The caravan consisted of different personnel for the return trip. Instead of the White, Black, and Gray Knights, there was the Blue Knight and the Green Knight and a nobleman whose title was Sir Myers of Keswick. Feinberg had vouchsafed to Uncle Floyd prior to departure that Sir Myers was one of the highest-ranking noblemen in the realm. This was a good sign, Feinberg had stated, because it indicated that the king had confidence in the boy’s abilities. Uncle Floyd had confidence in the boy as well. He just wasn’t sure if any artist on earth, much less a child, could create a masterpiece in three weeks’ time.
    Feinberg, in spite of the ebullient send-off he’d given to Benjamin and his uncle, had his doubts as well. He’d personally destroyed the crude, offending, stick-figure canvas the boy had left in his quarters. He did not want even a servant to see the monstrous thing. Feinberg had had a night to sleep on it and now he prayed that it was a childish prank and did not represent the high-water mark of the lad’s abilities. The boy’s uncle had shown Feinberg an excellent drawing of an inn called the Pregnant Sweetheart complete with ducks on a lake that he purported to be the work of the child. He’d also made the rather outlandish assertion that the boy had drawn it many miles before he’d,