So much for helping Cinderelly.

My life? You really don’t want to know about my life… Jesus, me throat’s dry. I need a fucking drink. Ah, thank you. Well, I do say it meself, as true as me name’s Charlie. You must think I’m taking in too much, but let me tell you, I never even asked to become a bloody horse. There I was, minding me own fucking business, in the house. Buttons, the family’s aging manservant, had laid out the traps as usual and me and me mates were trying to avoid the bloody things. Anyways, before we knew it we wuz caught in one of them traps. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here before you if we hadn’t been caught in that fucking trap.

Anyways, as I was saying, I saw her coming down the stairs and brushing the steps, with a chain around her ankles. It had a padlock on it, I fink. I mean, she’s rather odd, but she talks like Pallas Athena in the stage plays. She’s just… nice… But if I were human, she could try on my galoshes anytime. She was beautiful, bloofer like you wouldn’t believe, what with her golden hair falling down her back and her thin white nose. Me mouth waters at the thought of thinkin’ about her, believe me, guv’nor. Believe me, she was miserable in that shabby dress and shit and that headdress, um, babushka-think. I just cared about the traps. She notices me and she lets me loose from that trap, and we heard summat outside. We got outside and I saw her, a half-naked Welsh tart with wings… Bugger me, am I boring youse?

Then I’ll go on. I sees the Welsh tart, I does, and she notices me, and then she points her hand at me. If you think this is a fairy tale, you can think again, pal. It’s a horror novel. Can you even imagine the pain that that transformation caused me? Well, just imagine the horror of knowing you’re being transformed, followed by the unbearable, indescribable pain as your body’s molecular structure is warped beyond what should normally be possible. It’s almost like a human turning into a werewolf, except much worse.

When the transformation was done, we tried practicing our limbs, which was very painful, ‘cos we hadn’t been fucking introduced to them before. We’re mice, not fucking horses! Then the transformation of the pumpkin begins. I’ve heard reports that she had a magic tree, or the power of the birds at her disposal. Utter bollocks, if you ask me. The pumpkin grows really fucking big, beyond what should even be possible, until it’s turned into some kind of rotund carriage with bloody great golden wheels. You can bleedin’ tell it used to be a vegetable, because of the way it’s shaped, and there’s something fuckin’ unnatural about the whole thing. How’s anyone going to fail to notice anything suspicious, I hears you ask? I dunno, and I don’t fucking care.

If I recall correctly, they even ‘ad some bloody lizard on the premises that got turned into a footman. I have no soddin’ idea why he wuz even there to be honest, since this climate isn’t one where you’d normally expect to find lizards. I suspect he was some sort of family pet. I also remember there was a rat that got turned into a coachman, but I’m not even fucking sure because I can barely remember that damned fucking event. Even if there was a rat, I have no idea why he was even there, but I suppose it don’t bloody matter anyway.

So anyways, the scantily-clad slag then produces another dress for the girl, a pretty white one, which leaves her titties exposed to the elements (well, the upper ‘alf of ‘em, anyways) with shoes made not of glass but of fur (which makes it so fucking worse – for us but not for them bloody fucking humans. I mean can you even imagine the pain of seein’ shoes made of the fur of our own fucking kind?) and I can still hears her voice in me head to this day:

“It’s whimsy!” She does a little twirl in the garish new skirt she’s now clad in, sparing absolutely no thought whatsoever for the absolute horror we’ve just found ourselves in. Like all them young human maidens, she’s so taken in by the joy of the moment that she’s just stuck in her own little world. She has on some long white gloves, covering the lower-half of her arms. I dunno why human females even dress like that, but whatever it is I thinks she looks absolutely ridiculous. I can barely see due to the pain and discomfort of the whole entire thing.

Then the half-naked Welsh tart responds in her Welshy voice: “Yes, but like all whimsies, I’m afraid this can’t last forever. Go off in your silly frock, but be back home by twelve o’clock.”

And that’s that. Afterwards, we gets harnessed to the carriage, and it’s hard for me. I try to fight but the magic’s too strong, and the excruciatin’ pain is hampering me legs. So the pumpkin and its footman, we goes on to this bloody great castle, with walls so finely polished you’d think it were made of polished marble, where we waits, in the unimaginable torment of the night for what feels like fucking hours. I champ me bit, feeling the cold metal around me mouth, and I crane me new neck, which is very painful, towards the left, to look at me friends, who are all waiting for summat. You can’t even begin to imagine it.

Gimme another fucking drink, there’s a good lad. Thank’ee. Anyways, as I was saying, we waits and waits and waits, all feeling the pain, wonderin’ when it’s gonna end, and then all of a sudden, we ‘ears the bell. Dong. Dong. Dong. The chimes o’ midnight. And there she comes, the naïve little bitch who let us be transformed without giving so much as two shits about what we’d feel, without our consent. She’s still dressed in the same gown as when she went up them stairs, yes, but she’s missing a bloody shoe. Then the coachman whips our backs, which makes the pain so much worse and then, before I knows it, we’s racing down the lane for some bloody reason, trying to keep up and me legs are fucking killing me.

But the worst is yet to come, ‘cos I’m in for a bigger world of pain, because I feel meself shrinking back to me original form, and it’s even more painful than the transformation into the horse. Me mates were all as shocked as me, and our figures shrank back, and then the pumpkin kicks her out and then shrinks back, and then she’s left standing, in her normal dress.

Me friends all died from the trauma, except for me. I was all that was left and I let the horror sink over me. If that tart could inflict such a painful transformation onto me, what else could she do? So now, I’m here, in this ‘ere pub, drinkin’ away me every last mouse-sized coin, drowning me sorrows in beer and smokin’ me fagpoles. After that incident, I joined the Anti-Magic League, the activists that are dedicated to nobly stamping out the cause of magic. Causing the end of fairy godparents, of whimsical maidens, all of it. What thanks do we get for it? Nummat. Zilch. Nada. Anyways, I hopes you never encounters any of them. If you understand, you can maybe joins us too. Now, I’ll fucking drink: to the end of all fairytale fantasies, including the Tooth Faerie.