The Sweetest Best-est Most Un-wicked Stepmother Ever
ONCE upon a time there lived a young boy and his stern, hatchet-carrying father, whose wife had recently passed away. She was done in by one of those icky annual poxes that are nowadays so laughably curable. What a waste. The cottage where they lived sat on the Eastern slope of a tall hill, looking pretty quaint and idyllic even though it was structurally very unsound. It had also grown unkempt and dreary in the days since the lady’s death – a woman’s only, only vocation at the time being to keep that homestead shit straightened out. Even the boy’s hygiene and demeanor were going south. The father took note of all this (with a countenance that only ever expressed the emotions “nonplussed” or “enraged”) and, after a five-word heart-to-heart with his boy, resolved to get a new wife lickety-split. His land, his cottage, and all his livestock were super impressive-by-peasant-standards and could probably fetch a new wife-homemaker within the fortnight, which was a word that meant two weeks. The father readied his horse and, leaving the boy with a minuscule food ration and a list of exploitative chores, journeyed off to the large nearby village (population: 40).
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