It was a Sunday morning and far from curious. Some were mowing lawns, others reading papers; the normal malaise. No one suspected anymore than sunshine and even at that very pleasant sunshine. Mr. Plant was complaining loudly on the davenport about the stock market in lieu of other things to yell over. His wife ignored him as she looked at invoices regarding a pilates business she was starting. Neither knew much of the other's affairs. Mrs. Plant assumed Mr. Plant spent his day working over new advertising strategies for companies teetering on the edge of collapse. Mr. Plant assumed Mrs. Plant was fighting a pointless battle for fitness; everybody ends up fat, he thought, why fight it? In a strange coincidence, however, so unlike the day we now find them, Mr. and Mrs. Plant could not have been more different from each other's expectations.
Mr. Gregory Joseph Zinfandel Plant could not have cared less about the stock market. He was a devout liberal with a cover. It seemed the perfect allusion; a middle-aged, stodgy, boring conservative business man. In truth, he wanted to slap his more ignorant peers. They were so against helping anyone but themselves with tax dollars. But he couldn't let on he differed in the slightest. No one suspected him of illicit activities involving the liberation of garden gnomes; not his wife, not the neighbors, not even the government.
Mrs. Regina Georgia Lays-Potato Chips Plant was the opposite as well of what she seemed. Pilates disgusted her. Quite often she mumbled over the
hippie shit she endured to further her cause.
Does this dress make my butt look big? Is my wasteline smaller than before? Isn't the Prius soo ecological? Mrs. Plant found her self hearing on a daily basis. She wanted to shout that their asses always looked big; their wastelines were equators and the Prius couldn't make it through a windy day. But she held back. Her real life was a crusade against garden gnomes. For years he had worked behind the scenes, imprisoning the filthy creatures into plastic and selling them at maximum profit.
Yet, both were similar in one respect; neither could have contemplated the hoard of heavily armed gnomes soon marching past their kitchen window. Mr. Plant was outraged less at the occurrence than at the timing. This was not what he had in mind. Weapons were given with instructions to overthrow the authorities covertly. Mrs. Plant had assumed them all in plastic; her life's work nearing completion.
"I've got to, um, go," said Mr. Plant, getting up off the sofa and quickly to the door. She ran after him. The outside air was rich with the smell of gunpowder. Indeed, it appeared cannonballs had smashed the roofs of several unsuspecting neighbors.
"How did the despicable vermin manage to break their plastic encasement?" Mrs. Plant thought loudly to herself. The words were not missed by Mr. Plant, who had long suspected agents watching him.
"YOU!"
"What's the matter hunny?"
"You are responsible for the enslavement of millions!"
"Oh, please. These pests running about? It's a good thing we were taking care of them or else we would never have a moment's piece; always running around, organizing gardens against the owner's wills and what not."
"They are prideful creatures respecting beauty and the proper order! I've worked years to liberate them!"
"YOU! You're responsible for the counter insurgency!?"
The gnomes had stopped marching and were now watching with interest. Their greatest supporter and their greatest rival stood before them.
"Carry away the wench!" said one, "and crown the king!"
A few last shots were fired before the gnomes converged on Mrs. Plant. They tied her up as Mr. Plant said little of it. He waited for the crown before giving his first orders. It was a lovely gold with jewels embedded along the topmost prongs.
"My first order as King is a pardon," he said.
The gnomes laughed derisively. Mr. Plant had obviously misunderstood something.
"King is a ceremonial position. You have no power. The wench will live the rest of her soon-to-be agonizing life in the dungeons!"
"The wench is my wife!"
"Then you can join her!"
"Fine!"
"Too late. She's already taken her cyanide capsule.""
"What!?"
Mrs. Plant was dead and Mr. Plant seeing his lifework a conspiracy and farce took off his crown. His neighborhood was burning; the fires spreading to God knows how many others. What had he unleashed?
"Please, stop all this! We're sorry we hurt you!"
"Apology accepted, but, unfortunately, it's our turn to be sorry."
Negotiation was useless. Mr. Plant had one option; the same as Mrs. Plant's. He bit down on a capsule and transcended to the oneness of the universe he used to think he felt while doing acid.
