The Llama Who Had A Hole Through His Head

By Martin Smith

The Llama Who Had A Hole Through His Head heralds an exciting new voice in the world of comic writing. Filled with quirky surrealism and inspired buffoonery, this debut collection of fantastical tales takes lives on the fringe of the familiar and, with an inventive and inimitable brand of humour, pushes them to the brink of the absurdly ridiculous and beyond.

 

A young Peruvian sheep laments his unhappiness. A thespian experiences the highs and lows of Tinseltown. A bullied boy is granted three wishes by a fallen star. A famous detective is called upon to solve a curious and colourful case. A manicurist confronts a biblical colossus. A squirrel receives taxation advice from an unexpected source. And an infamous athlete seeks to have history rewritten. Each of the thirteen stories in this book shows that when the uncanny and the real collide, the world can be a truly weird, wonderful and exceedingly funny place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: martinsmithstories.com
• Release date: Apr 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9780975630617

Book preview

Cover for THE LLAMA WHO HAD A WHOLE THROUGH HIS HEAD

THE LLAMA WHO

HAD A HOLE

THROUGH HIS HEAD

Stories of Humour

MARTIN SMITH

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 Martin Smith

All rights reserved.

EPUB3 Edition

No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

ISBN 978-0-9756-3060-0 (paperback)

ISBN 978-0-9756-3061-7 (ebook)

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.

Published by martinsmithstories.com

Cover image © @iconogenic / www.freepik.com

Author’s Note

The following ebooks were published concurrently in 2024:

The Llama Who Had A Hole Through His Head

Stories of Humour

In Finite Jest

Stories of Humour II

The Cannibal’s Guide to Health and Wellbeing™

Stories of Humour III

martinsmithstories.com

collected stories of humour - volume one

On the first day of every month, a new Monthly Story is published at martinsmithstories.com. The stories in this ebook are or eventually will be available on that site.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Author’s Note

Dedication

Epigraph

The Llama Who Had a Hole Through His Head

Black and White and All the Colours In Between

Magic School

Porridge

Lard Lars Gets His Girl: A Modern Fairy Tale

The Curious Case of Cluedo Black

Upside-down Cake

A Mairy Tale

This is The Word of The Lord

Much Ado About Nutting

Three Bean Mix

Rocketman

Hare, There and Everywhere

Acknowledgements

About the Author

For Rose

‘Let me play the fool.

[And] with mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.’

—Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

The Llama Who Had a Hole Through His Head

On a desolate, elevated plateau bordered by perpetual snow and shadowed by the precipices of the Peruvian Andes, a flock of four sheep grazed in windswept silence.

The tallest sheep raised his head and said, ‘Father, I am unhappy.’

The heaviest sheep paused grazing and said, ‘Why is that, first-born?’

‘Because I’m so woolly, Father. My fleece is a manky, knotty mess.’

‘If you weren’t woolly, first-born, you could not ward off the bitter cold sweeping down from the great mountains.’

The young ram pondered his father’s reply, released a sceptical bleat and returned to his grazing.

After a short time the young ram raised his head again and said, ‘Father, I am unhappy.’

‘What now?’ the elder ram said.

‘It’s my hoofed feet, Father. They ache all the time. Not only that, they are battered and chipped.’

‘If you didn’t have hoofed feet, you could not ramble about the great mountains. Now hush, first-born, and finish your meal. And remember, it’s rude to talk with your mouth full.’

The young ram again pondered his father’s reply, released a more sceptical bleat and returned to his grazing.

After a longer period of windswept silence, the young ram paused and raised his head and swallowed and said, ‘Father, I am still unhappy.’

‘By the holy horns of the mystic mountain mouflons, won’t you give an old ram a moment’s peace? I swear you’ll give me a stomach ulcer.’

‘I’m sorry, Father, but I must tell you that I am unhappy about my neck being so much longer than those of the rest of the flock. Why is that so?’

And the elder ram said, ‘That’s because, believe it or not, you’re a llama. An L-L-A-M-A. Blame your mother. She’s the one who had a clandestine affair with a camel. Now shut up and eat.’ And the old ram glowered at a plump ewe, who blushed as she paid particular watery-eyed attention to a clump of grass before her.

Quietude returned to the plateau as the flock continued to graze, and the young stud (who until then had thought he was a young ram) chewed and pondered his mother’s infidelity.

After a much longer silence, the llama raised his head. His sister, grazing by his side, paused and looked up and gave him a sheepish grin.

With a perplexed look on his face, the llama gave a polite bleat, and having attracted the old ram’s attention, he said, ‘Stepfather, have I told you what I am most unhappy about?’

‘Off with you! Now! I’ll not endure another second of your incessant bleating!’

‘But … but … Stepfather … I have this prominent hole through my head. Why is that so?’

‘Because you are the silliest, emptiest-headed, most annoying ungulate to have ever hoofed upon the Andean plateaus. You’re a freak of nature, a genetic mutant. Happy now? Yes? Then bugger off and go stand by the goat path while the rest of us finish our main course in peace. And for goodness’ sake, keep whatever wits remaining in that hollow head of yours about you and look out for pumas and poachers.’

A tad miffed by the old ram’s grumpiness, the young llama wandered over to the side of the path and stood next to an arrowed sign that read Felicidad and raised his long neck and stood sentinel whilst the flock grazed. The cold snow bit at his ankles. His prominent teeth chattered. A gloom of despair weighed upon his heart. And the Andean wind swept down and whistled through the hole through his head.

When the flock finished their main course, they ambled towards the young llama, for on the other side of the path lay fresh pasture ideal for dessert. Eager to get his dessert, the young llama stepped upon the path to Felicidad.

A flash of light caught the young llama’s left eye, and he turned his head as a bang sounded, but, alas, he was too slow, for a bullet discharged from a poacher’s rifle sped towards his head, yet it whooshed through the hole through his head and struck his half-sister, who died with neither a farewell bleat nor the sheepish smile wiped from her face.

Another flash of light came from the young llama’s right. He turned his head as another bang sounded, but this time he was certainly too late, for a second bullet sped towards his head, yet it, too, surged through the hole through his head and struck his mother, whose final thought was a yearning for the concupiscent camel she shagged at a carpet conference in Cairo many years ago.

The young llama had no time to mourn the loss of two loved ones nor his escalating unhappiness, for a third flash of light, brighter than the first two, came from his left, followed by a louder bang, and as he turned his head left and closed his eyes and awaited his fate, a bullet whistled through the hole through his head and struck his stepfather, who died without dessert.

Shaking all over, the young llama opened his eyes and saw three men approach with their rifles raised.

But a poacher’s bullet would not determine the young llama’s fate, for the poachers surrounded him and marvelled at how such a creature could be untouched by three bullets. The men knew this was no ordinary animal; no, this was a blessed brute, a sacred stud. And they dropped to their knees and paid homage to the holiest of beasts.

Soon the young llama became enthroned as His Holiness the Umpteenth Dalai Llama, and zealous devotees near and far revered him. Accompanied by a fleece stylist and a pedicurist, the young llama travelled the world on one endless junket, flying first-class on aeroplanes, sleeping in five-star hotels and dining at luxurious restaurants. He pontificated to rulers and rock stars and appeared on talk shows and at book signings and espoused platitudes to the multitudes. And whenever anyone saw the holy him, whether in the media or in the flesh, they would observe two features: his holey head and the huge grin on his face, for he was the happiest llama in the world.

Moral: When stepping upon the Path to Happiness, those who look left, then right, and then left again, survive and thrive.

Black and White

and

All the Colours in Between

On a bitterly bleak New York Saturday afternoon, as Felix Feinman sat beside a grim-faced, bed-ridden Mrs Feinman and read aloud to her, he raised his eyes above the black and white of the printed page, glanced at the sullen face of his wife of thirty-nine years and decided he’d had enough and resolved to proceed with his plan to engage in a clandestine affair with a younger woman.

Had he and Mrs Feinman not been walking down 10th Avenue the previous Sunday, Felix doubted he would have even considered such an audacious act of adultery. After all, one doesn’t make such decisions lightly. But the events of the last week had driven him to the brink and now beyond. For nearly forty years, Felix had endured Mrs Feinman’s temper and nagging tongue. No matter how small or how still he made himself, she always found him and found fault in him. And once caught in the crosshairs of her wrath—with her bluing face and her bulging eyes and her puffing cheeks and her clenching fists—Felix could do naught but cower as she unleashed a right royal bollocking upon him.

A casual observer to the Feinman marriage might well ask Felix, ‘Why do you tolerate such a harridan?’ To which Felix should have replied, ‘It’s none of your business,’ but to which he would have replied, ‘Because I can still make her laugh, and to hear her laugh makes my heart sing.’ For one bond remained steadfast throughout the four decades of the lopsided Feinman marriage, one adhesive that kept them together: Mrs Feinman’s sporadic sense of humour. On occasions, when Mrs Feinman’s face blued and her eyes bulged and her cheeks puffed and her fists clenched, Felix—in an act some would call brave and others would call foolish—would try to douse the flames of her rage with a quick quip or a pithy punchline. And on some of those occasions, Mrs Feinman’s face might pink and her eyes might contract and her cheeks might deflate and her fists might unclench, and she would release a raucous, jowl-wobbling, belly-jiggling, side-stitching laugh. But not for too long, mind you, as she didn’t want to allow her husband more than a moment’s joy. But long enough for Felix to remain content living, figuratively and physically, in the conjugal shadow of the much taller, much larger and exceedingly acidulous Mrs Feinman.

But on most occasions—and with increasing frequency in recent months—his attempted jest failed to alter his wife’s stern demeanour, and Felix, sensing a haranguing, beat a hasty retreat to the solitude of his study and sought solace by sitting in his battered leather reading chair and immersing himself in the printed words of a leather-bound classic or accompanying the dulcet tones of Pavarotti, Di Stefano or Caruso as they serenaded the world’s great divas.

But last week, on the Sunday prior to Felix’s adulterous resolution, Mrs Feinman suffered a most terrible loss.

As the Feinmans walked along 10th Avenue—Felix two steps behind his wife and dutifully hauling their shopping trolley—and they neared 54th Street, Mrs Feinman stopped and rummaged inside her handbag.

‘Felix!’ she said. ‘I can’t find it!’

‘Find what, my dear?’ Felix said, absent-mindedly as he daydreamed about delivering a witty punchline during his debut performance on Saturday Night Live.

‘My sense of humour!’ She turned her handbag upside down, and its contents spilled onto the sidewalk. ‘I’ve lost it! And it’s all your fault!’

‘I’ve no doubt it is, my dear. When did you last have it?’ Presentiment stooped Felix’s shoulders.

‘I had a titter to myself while waiting for the pedestrian light on the corner of 52nd Street and 10th Avenue. Don’t stand there! Do something!’

Felix raised his foot and checked under the sole of his shoe. ‘Not under there, my dear.’ And he permitted himself a chuckle.

‘This is no laughing matter, Felix!’ Mrs Feinman raised and pointed a threatening index finger at her husband. ‘Go back and look for it!’

Abandoning his trolley to his wife’s ill-tempered watch, Felix backtracked towards 52nd Street. As he checked along the gutter and inside trash cans, he lamented Mrs Feinman’s forgetfulness. She had misplaced her sense of humour with increasing regularity over recent months. She would enter the lounge room with a terse face and a temper and blame Felix and say either ‘You distracted me, Felix!’ or ‘You’re doing this deliberately, Felix!’ or ‘Felix, this is what you want, isn’t it? To get me into the nuthouse so you can take off with some wanton hussy!’. And all Felix could do was reply, ‘No, my dear.’ And he would abandon his newspaper or his book or his painting by numbers and search the apartment. At first, he found his wife’s missing trait with ease, either perched upon her head or under the couch cushions or on her bedside table, but in recent weeks, with the losses occurring daily or more often, his wife grew more irritable and the hiding places more obscure: in the canister of Earl Grey tea leaves or in her bloomers draw or bookmarking the dog-eared leaves of his battered copy of Tristram Shandy. Yesterday, he’d almost given up all hope when he paused for a cup of tea and bit into a cookie, only to crack a molar and spit the missing trait onto his plate.

But now, for the first time, Mrs Feinman had lost her sense of humour beyond the confines of their apartment. And Felix feared she’d lost it for good this time.

As he made his way down 10th Avenue, he continued his search, but Mrs Feinman’s sense of humour was nowhere to be seen. All he found were a couple of senses of obligation, a single sense of purpose and dozens and dozens of senses of wonder. Good God, he thought, it’s no surprise the world’s so apathetic these days, what with people’s wanton abandonment of their sense of wonder.

When Felix reached the pedestrian lights on the corner of 52nd and 10th, a glint on the sidewalk caught his eye. Could he be this lucky? he thought. He bent down but then cursed. No, not Mrs Feinman’s sense of humour but a sense of dread, soldered to a quarter. Following a glance back towards Mrs Feinman, he picked up the coin and pocketed it. He figured he’d be needing it when he returned to Mrs Feinman and delivered the bad news. As he walked back, he prayed for his trouser pocket to fray so his sense of direction could drop and roll down a drain so it and him could disappear.

***

‘Oh, you’re hopeless, Felix!’ Mrs Feinman said. ‘You’re just like your mother!’

‘Yes, my dear.’ Felix gave the sense of dread in his pocket a squeeze.

‘So what are you going to do about it?!’

‘Me? I … I … let’s try the local police station.’

But a police officer at the 20th Precinct informed Felix that the station’s lost-and-found box contained dozens of senses of entitlement, several senses of occasion, one sense of belonging but not a single sense of humour.

While a stern-faced Mrs Feinman sat in the waiting room, Felix filled out a report.

‘Good luck,’ the police officer said to Felix, casting a glance at Mrs Feinman.

‘Thanks,’ Felix said as he dotted the i’s in his signature.

‘I suspect you’re going to need it.’ And the police officer gave Mrs Feinman another furtive glance.

***

When they arrived home, Mrs Feinman sat stony-faced on the sofa while Felix placed advertisements in all the newspapers. He drafted posters that offered a significant reward. All evening he roamed the neighbouring streets, searching and pasting posters to lampposts and alleyway walls. When he climbed into bed at midnight, his wife stirred, turned her back to him, and with a huff and more than her fair share of the blanket, she muttered to herself into the wee hours of the morning.

All Monday, Felix searched for Mrs Feinman’s sense of humour, wandering the streets of their neighbourhood. He spoke to dustmen and washerwomen and street-corner vendors, and all gave him a wry smile and an apology and wished him all the best in his ongoing search.

Again unsuccessful, Felix returned home late, and again his wife gave him the cold shoulder and little of the blanket.

On Tuesday morning, the phone rang.

‘Mr Feinman?’ a voice said.

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Sergeant Peppa, down at the 20th. We’ve had a sense of humour turned in.’

‘I’ll be right down.’

‘Thank God!’ Felix said as he rushed out the apartment door. He ran all the way to the station and arrived at the desk, puffing and panting.

‘Feinman … here … call … Peppa … collect … wife’s … sense … humour.’

‘Ah, yes,’ the duty officer said. ‘It’s right here.’ He reached below the counter and then placed a crumpled package on the bench. ‘I’ll just need you to sign