everything's got a moral, as long as you can find it;

[wingborne]

Alfred F. Jones, in a floral blue dress with black garter belts, stood at the gate of the mansion. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to get involved with such creeps, but his stomach growled at him angrily, so he wobbled into the garden with his three-inch heels.

“Happy unbirthday to you, happy unbirthday to you, mon petit,” the one on the right was singing. This one had a bristly goatee sprouting from his chin, dressed in a Playboy outfit, two rabbit ears popping out of his hair. His legs, which were stretched onto the table inelegantly, were thinly with black pantyhose. The low cut of the outfit revealed nothing but rich hair sprouting from his chest.

“Happy… Happy unbirthday… Stupid…” The second one, sitting to the left, yawned widely. He had large mouse ears flopping to his side. He was a young boy, dressed in a white outfit with blue ribbons, but he seemed sleepy and rolled his head side from side, kicking at the chair with his feet.

“It’s actually my birthday.” The one sitting at the top end of the table scowled at the both of them. He had furiously deep eyebrows, which were mostly covered by the overwhelmingly tall top hat he wore. He was neatly arrayed in a three-piece suit, buttons gold and shining, cuffs rolled up. His long waistcoat was brushed finely, and his bow had been arranged according to all the gentleman’s rulebooks in the world.

“Hey,” Alfred called out. “What’re you doing?”

“We’re having an unbirthday party, stupid,” the second one said, yawning. “What’d you think?”

“An unbirthday party? Wassat?” He was busy eying the food laid out on the table. None of it looked good. Absolutely none of it. The cakes were burnt a crisp black, the scones looked like smoldering ashes, the main plate had been censored out. Only the tea looked even remotely good, and Alfred didn’t even like tea.

“It’s a celebration,” the man with the top hat said, “for when it’s not your birthday. Haven’t you heard of it?”

“That’s kinda stupid.” Alfred did some quick calculations in his head. “It’s only your birthday once a year, isn’t it?”

“And that’s why celebrating your unbirthday is so much smarter. That way, you can have 364 unbirthdays, if you’re following the western calendar. But since my birthday isn’t listed on any official sites,” the man in the top hat added, “I consider everyday my birthday. So celebrating my birthday would be much smarter, wouldn’t you say?”

“You only want every chance to trot out your horrible food.” The man with the rabbit ears straightened up to wrinkle his nose at the goop in front of him. It looked like several monsters from several lagoons, the darkness spiraling back from inky purple and abyss blackness in a few swift movements.

“Don’t be stupid and introduce yourself properly. I’m the Mad Hatter. This is the March Hare, and that’s the Dormouse. Arthur, Francis, Peter.”

“You have two names?” Alfred took a seat in a particularly large chair, nearly sinking into the comfortable felt before he scrambled his way out.

“We all have two names. It makes more sense. Three is too much, one isn’t enough. Tea?”

“Sure,” Alfred said, “I’ll have some more tea.” He pushed the little white tea cup across the table, but the Mad Hatter’s face grew even darker and solemn. If it was possible, his eyebrows would have connected to form an ultimate bridge.

“You can’t have more tea if you didn’t have any tea in the first place. Riddle, then?”

“What?” His head was starting to spin, but that might be because of the aroma wafting from the dish in front of him. If he looked closely, he thought the structure may have once been a square cake, which through civilizations, had collapsed into itself to a crumbling mold-like substance. Hesitantly, he took a bite, and it was as disgusting as it looked.

“Riddles. He loves riddles.” Francis leaned forward, one ear flopping over his face. “That’s why we call him the mad hatter.”

“You call me the mad hatter because during the time this beautiful literary work was written, hatters were often exposed to chemicals that made them bloody well mad. One or two riddles?” Arthur asked, holding up two sugar cubes over the tea cup.

“Two, I guess.”

“You guess.” Arthur looked at Francis, and Francis looked at Peter, and Peter snored.

“Yeah. I. Guess.” Were these guys deaf and weird? Was that even humanly possible? It was like he was on an archaeology dig and instead of finding cool artifacts like ancients swords, he had found an ancient moldy toothbrush.

“You should say what you mean. Be direct. Prompt. Concise.” Arthur slid back the cup across the table.

“I say what I mean,” Alfred said. For some reason, he felt really annoyed this thick-eyebrow guy thought he could tell him what to do. Especially with something as stupid as words. He knew how to speak words. He spoke them all the time!

“Meaning what you say and saying what you mean are very different things. First riddle, when’s a tortoise not a tortoise? Second, why are you here?”

“The second one wasn’t a riddle.”

“It’s a riddle to us, so you should tell us,” Francis said, smiling slowly, as if he would soon disappear with only his crescent smile left behind, floating in the air.

“I fell down a hole.” Alfred drank his tea, and was relieved to find it was actually tea.

“You fell down a hole?” Arthur looked suddenly skeptical, leaning back, with his white-gloved hands folded across his cream-colored vest. “What sort of hole?”

“I don’t know. I was just following a rabbit. And then I came to this place where there was something that said EAT ME and DRINK ME and—”

“And you surely didn’t eat it, did you?” That was Arthur, who was leaning forward with both palms pressed flat against the table in disbelief.

“Of course I did! It said eat me!” Alfred shrugged, and ate some more of the disgusting food on his plate. “Whash wash I shupposed to do?”

“You shouldn’t follow his poor example, Dormouse,” Francis told Peter, but to no avail. Peter simply yawned again, muttered something about stupid jerks, and turned back to sleep with a light snore.

“You’re bloody mad.” Arthur looked increasingly disgusted. “What if it had been poisoned? Didn’t you think about that?”

“Then it wouldn’t say eat me,” Alfred said. “And then after a while I got really confused and I thought I was Alice or Alfred or America and it was weird. But I have to get home soon to feed my cat. What time is it?”

Arthur slipped out a golden watch from his pocket, dangling sharply from a chain. He popped it open with a sharp snap, and then, said, “2010.”

“Isn’t that late? Only slightly, but, still,” Francis said disapprovingly, taking the pocket watch from him. One hand examined the back of the watch while the other lovingly caressed Arthur’s groin.

“I oiled it when my best tea,” Arthur murmured, cradling his watch as if it was a small cat. “It should be right. It’s right, innit?” He looked up at Alfred expectantly.

“That’s not a time at all! That’s last year!”

“Oh, it’s only off by a year. Not bad at all, yeah?” Arthur turned to Peter in question, but Peter only mumbled something about how he was growing up big and strong, and then fell back to sleep with a deep snore.

“Why do you have a watch that tells you the year? You have calendars for that!” Alfred pushed away his tea, but only because he had already drank it already. Running around growing bigger and smaller was tiring for him (though he was always big where it counted).

“It doesn’t measure years. It measures centuries. So much better,” Arthur sighed. “All right, storytime. Peter, tell a story.”

Peter mumbled something about how he would take over the world and make everybody call him the mighty Sealand and he would be recognized forever and nobody would ever laugh at him again or else their heads would get chopped off.

(The March Hare paled at the last sentence.)

Upon finally awaking, the Dormouse yawned and looked at Alfred sleepily, unsurprised by the new visitor. Then, he began his story: “Once upon a time, there was a boy. He fished and flew and fed fishes—”

“Why did he feed fishes when he just ate them?” Alfred interrupted. “Did he feed them to eat them?”

“It’s not like that,” Arthur said irritably. “It’s alliteration. A repetition of consonants that creates a flattering—”

“Fucked,” Francis said finally. “You should say fucked, Dormouse.”

“Don’t teach him bad words, you fucking twat! You may have your head tucked nice up and tight in your fucking ugly arse, but like hell you’re going to teach him any of that!” Arthur kicked him sharply underneath the table, and then punched him squarely above the table. Francis bite him, ears flopping wildly, and they started scuffing at each other, rolling around on the ground.

“One day, the boy became a country and was really cool and did cool things—”

“Is it still alliteration if you repeat cool?” Alfred asked skeptically.

From beneath the table, one rabbit ear popped up, just enough time for the March Hare to say, “Cunt!” before there was a cracking sound as somebody’s nose apparently broke. Arthur stood up, brushing his vest, and wiped the blood from his face with his nice blue handkerchief.

“Keep on going,” he told the Dormouse tenderly.

“No,” Alfred said, standing up. “I think I’ve got to leave.”

“You can’t leave! There are so many leaves left unturned,” Arthur said, looking startled. From behind him, a hand reached up from the ground and began to promptly grope him.

“Isn’t that saying stones?” Alfred was already moving for the garden gate.

“If it was, then that would certainly rock my world—” Arthur turned to shove off the hand that was moving rapidly into his trousers, and Alfred took the chance to move out of the garden. That would have an opportune time for him to start talking to himself, muttering about things like oh him, and contemplate on his future adventures, but he was still kinda hungry and he needed to get back home.

“Wait!”

Alfred winced, but he turned around to see the Mad Hatter running after him, one hand firmly planted to keep his hat out of the wind, like a true gentleman. Slightly out of breath, the Mad Hatter bent forward, panting, with his hands on his knees. It took a while for him to get back his breath, but when he looked up, there was softness in the corners of his eyes.

“You’re not going to leave, really, are you?” Arthur checked his watch again. “So soon?”

“I have to go.” Alfred pulled on the edge of his skirt. “Are you looking up my skirt?”

“A little bit,” Arthur said, straightening up. “Nice garters.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Wait!” With another sigh, Arthur dug into his pocket and brought out a small pack of playing cards. He slipped the plastic-wrapped carton into Alfred’s pocket, though not without a good solid grope.

“Just remember,” he said, blushing slightly, “even if everything seems bad—well—sometimes a pack of cards is only a pack of cards.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You… You wouldn’t! Idiot!” Like a leftover Christmas light, Arthur’s face grew dark red.

“You’re not actually mad, are you?” Alfred patted the cards in his pocket, feeling more secure already. “I mean, maybe you’re angry. You seem really angry. But you’re not crazy.”

“I’m nigh wood, and that’s enough for me. That’s English for yes, I’m bloody well mad, and so are you. We’re all mad here. Now, just… be careful, stupid. Or else I’ll make you a hatter, too.” Arthur pulled his hat tighter on his head and began to walk back, his dark waistcoat flapping in the wind, a pleasant sight against the greenery of the forest. Alfred watched his receding back, wondering if he should have taken a packet of ugly cookies with him along the journey.

“Hey,” he called out. “What was the answer to the riddle?”

“What?” Arthur looked over his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed.

“When is a tortoise not a tortoise?”

“Oh,” Arthur said. “Read the damn book, idiot.” With a sudden flourish of his coat, he disappeared back into the garden, where tendrils of a drunken happy unbirthday was being sung.

Alfred thought it was curious, and then he thought it was curiouser when he opened the pack of cards and found Arthur’s number written on the Queen of Spades, with THIS NUMBER HAS BEEN ACCIDENTALLY LEFT HERE. Sometimes, he really did everybody was really actually mad. But he smiled as he tucked the cards back into his dress pocket, and thought that maybe he might be a little mad too.