Once upon a time there lived a king and a queen. To put it simply, they had everything — literally everything imaginable, plus a few things that probably shouldn’t exist. Everything except children. That saddened the queen and drove the king to despair. Despite their age, they never gave up hope. In his free time the king carved toys, and the queen sewed tiny outfits for a baby that didn’t exist. One day, the queen sat quietly by a pond, embroidering yet another infant shirt. Suddenly, a frog hopped onto her lap and, in flawless Russian, said in a human voice: “Your Majesty, intel says that in nine months you’ll have a daughter. Tell your comrade the king so he can adjust operations accordingly.” The frog then jumped back into the pond. The king and queen were overjoyed, and indeed the prophecy came true. A baby girl was born. They named her Arya, after a great-grandmother—or maybe for some other reason. To celebrate, the king threw a massive party: musicians, entertainers, celebrities—Schwarzenegger came, Elton John, Pamela Anderson, even Depardieu of course. Most importantly, seven fairies were invited. An eighth was left out—because she was on an international wanted list for magical dealings with the NSA. The feast began. When it was time to bless the princess, the first fairy raised a golden shot glass of cognac and declared: “You will be fabulously beautiful—almost like Britney Spears, only better!” “You will be as smart as Einstein!” said the second. “You will be richer than Abramovich, and never sanctioned!” promised the third. “You will be as loved by the people as Trudeau at his peak!” “You will paint like Picasso—or at least like Tristan Tzara!” “You will crush your enemies like Caesar, and your friends like Stalin!” Everyone waited for the seventh fairy, the most powerful one, with ties in the White House. But then the windows burst open. In a cloud of green smoke flew in the eighth fairy. “Partying, are we? And why wasn’t I invited?” she asked politely. “Well… we forgot! And besides, you’re kind of wanted internationally,” the king and queen stammered. “Forgot, huh? Take vitamin B5 for memory. So here’s my gift: when the princess turns 15, she’ll prick her finger on a spindle—and die!” She vanished in more green smoke. The kingdom’s air-defense radars detected a high-speed, low-altitude target but failed to acquire lock, as operators were already overwhelmed by a swarm of unidentified drones crossing the border. Containment protocol failed as usual. To be continued..
The seventh fairy finally spoke: “Checkout!” she intoned. “I can’t cancel the eighth fairy’s curse—I don’t know what dependencies she committed to the repo. But I can modify it. The princess won’t die; she’ll fall into a deep sleep. Everyone within a kilometer will also fall asleep. After a hundred years she’ll awaken if kissed by a handsome prince… or if we somehow debug whatever spaghetti code the eighth fairy pushed. Less likely. Commit!” “Merge!” chorused the other fairies. The king convened an emergency Security Council session. Decision: all spindles in the kingdom to be burned. Justification for public - they produce to much CO2, just like cows, if that doesn't work - they work as COVID reservoir, just like minks. The princess grew quickly. On her 15th birthday, security was tight: SWAT at each gate, guests scanned with spindle-detectors. The ball was lively, no sign of the eighth fairy, everyone relaxed and drifted into the chillout zones. The princess found herself in one, alone for once. An old hippie-looking woman sat there, spinning thread on some ethnic contraption. “What’s that?” the princess asked. “Come closer, I’ll show you—never seen this before, eh?” said the woman, who of course was the eighth fairy. She grabbed the princess’s hand and pricked her finger. The fairy vanished in her same old green smoke—fifteen years and she still hadn’t upgraded her special effects. The princess collapsed, twitched, and went still. Her metabolism dropped to near zero: deep stasis. The king, queen, guests, and even the guards also keeled over, as foretold. To be continued..
Thorns and wild roses quickly engulfed the palace, so thick only a bulldozer could break through—conveniently ensuring the sleeping people and royal treasures stayed untouched. A hundred years passed. People forgot about the palace and the princess. Only Google remembered. One day, a prince was googling how to make stash spots without getting caught. By accident, he clicked into a Wikipedia article about the sleeping princess. Wasting no time, he stole a tank of glyphosate from a hardware store and set out. Spraying generously, he watched the mutant thornbushes shrivel and bloom with roses. With the floorplan of the chillout zones in hand, he found the princess. Not that he kissed her immediately—after a century the smell wasn’t exactly Chanel—but he steeled himself and did it. “God, my head is splitting,” groaned the king, waking from his century-long coma. “What did they put in those cocktails?” “Here, drink some pickle brine,” said the queen. “And who’s this?” the king noticed the prince. “That’s my future husband, Daddy. He kissed me, that’s why we all woke up. Everything’s going according to plan,” said the princess. That very day they held a grand wedding. I was there too, drinking mojitos—careful not to wet my mustache, since I used a straw. As for the eighth fairy: she was arrested in London, extradited to the U.S., sentenced to three life terms, and then her trail went cold.
