In the beginning, there was Frank. He lived across the world from Adam and Eve, and just down the road from Blinky Platypus, the Trickster Marsupial God. Unlike all the other new things in the new world, Frank was not a wide-eyed innocent. He had the blood of Sarcastio, the god of Irony, and Smugmar, the goddess of Cynicism, coursing through his veins. His parents banished him to this world after he’d set fire to one too many galaxies, and he considered it a dull backwater cul-de-sac dead-end planet, far too backwards and provinical a place for a Being of his stature and importance.
Now, one day, Frank went to his favorite spot in the world, a ledge overlooking a small valley filled with trees and long, lush plains that lapped gently against the sides of the mountains that surrounded them. The Ledge was his favorite place because, from this vantage point, he could see hundreds of Creation’s new creatures, teeming at the base of the valley, and kill them with his massive crossbow, which used sharpened ferrets as bolts.
He also liked it because he could talk to the Trees of Ledge, four sardonic oaks planted on the edge of Ledge by Frank’s father. They had no leaves, and their barks were white as death, and yet they were alive. They were mean bastards, embittered by years of being shat on by passing birds, pissed on by passing dogs, and rained on by passing clouds.
“Hello, Dickhead,” said the third one from the right, who Frank called Third One From The Right.
“Hello, Third One From The Right,” said Frank. “How’s life?”
“Interminable,” said Third One From The Right. “But not so interminable that it can’t be made more so by your presence.”
“Good to hear it!” said Frank, and loosed a ferret toward a large herd of Jerdens in a distant clearing. It pierced the hide of the biggest one, which lowed in pain and keeled over.
But Frank was tired of snuffing out lives one soul at a time. The ferret bow, the salami club, the seven-bladed sword, they just weren’t enough any more. He needed something bigger. He needed something ballistic. He needed something nasty. He needed blowfish stuffed with exploding beetles.
So he ran down to the ocean that would one day be called the Pacific and harvested three blowfish (which were, back then, the size of small dogs), then paid a visit to his Exploding Insect Farm and harvested a whole colony of ballistic beetles, which shot volatile wads of chemical out of their hindquarters that blew up five seconds after they came in contact with oxygen. The resulting blast was big enough to take out a city block, or would have been if there were any city blocks to take out.
This was Frank’s original design, and he was justifiably proud of it. He would be dismayed to see his invention devolve into the bombardier beetle, one day, in a sort of compromise with Nature, which could not under any circumstances condone tiny chitinous creatures with that kind of firepower. She had a Balance to strike, after all.
He ran back up to the Ledge and crammed as many beetles as he could into one of the blowfish, sealed it, and inflated it with a bicycle pump that had come down to him through a gentle rift in the space/time continuum. He stopped when the fish was about to pop, its skin so distended that it was nearly transparent; you could see legions of confused and angry ballistic beetles firing away inside. There was no air in the sealed fish, however, so nothing happened.
Frank walked to the edge of the ledge, bouncing the inflated blowfish on the tips of his fingers like a beachball, and threw it over. It floated slowly down to earth, revolving on its axis, like a doomed planet, gliding serenely towards a large herd of Jerdans. If they saw it coming, they didn’t take much notice. It wasn’t that floating oversized blowfish were a common sight in those days, but this was the Beginning of Everything, and the world had not yet learned how to brace itself.
The blowfish touched one of the Jerdan’s horns, and the contact ripped a hole in its side. Air rushed into the fish, mingling with the gallons of chemical mayhem that the frantic ballistic beetles had been secreting on their way down.
The explosion was massive. It was epic. It was unlike anything Frank had seen before, and even better than he’d imagined. Everything he saw disappeared in a ball of pure flame — creatures, trees, grassland, everything. The heat from the blast was enough to singe his eyebrows, even at this height. He danced a little jig, laughing like a small boy. Which he was, in a way.
He ran back to his cache and prepared another blowfish for launch. But instead of simply dropping it over this time, he reared back and flung it as hard as he could, hoping to land it in the middle of the forest and so take out the whole damn valley.
Unfortunately, in the wild abandon brought on by this sudden bloodlust, he miscalculated and hurled it directly at Third One From The Right. It got caught in the tree’s leafless, skeletal branches, and popped.
Luckily, the beetles had not had much time to do their business, so this explosion was much smaller than the last one — but still quite respectable. It burned the other Trees of Ledge very badly, and knocked Third One From The Right backwards. For a moment, it hung over the edge of the Ledge, prevented from falling only by virtue of its (suddenly exposed) root system. But the roots snapped, one by one, until, finally, the tree toppled, screaming, into the valley below.
Now, Frank was of two minds about this development. On the one hand, this was a species of destruction he had not yet contemplated, much less planned, so he was positively delighted. A Tree of Ledge uprooted and flung down from a great height by an exploding fish. It was brilliant!
On the other hand, he was slightly worried that his father, who harbored an inexplicable soft spot for these damn trees, might be slightly miffed if one of them died. And miffed would be bad for Frank.
So Frank ran down to the valley as fast as he could, and was relieved to find that Third One From The Right was still alive. But not well. He lay on his side, roots extended towards the sky, branches buried in the earth, groaning loudly.
“Dickhead,” he said, when he saw Frank. “Why?”
“No reason,” said Frank. “Are you … um … in pain, or something?” Frank wasn’t very good at expressing concern, and the question came out sounding more gleeful than earnest.
“Only the worse kind of pain imaginable,” said Third One From The Right. “Although I have discovered that there is something worse than being a tree: being an uprooted upside-down blown up tree.”
“There you go, Third One From …” He trailed off. “You’re not really any more, though, are you?”
“Really what?”
“The third one from the right. You’re not even really a Tree of Ledge.”
The tree grunted.
“You’re more a Tree of No Ledge.” said Frank, instantly warming to the name. “Yes! A Tree of No Ledge! Perfect!”
The Tree of No Ledge grinned.
“You like it too, then?”
“No. I was just contemplated what brand of torture you’re in for when your father finds out what you’ve done.”
“Aw, he won’t mind.”
“He raised me himself. From a little sapling to the mighty creature I am today. He planted me here because he thought you’d take care of me. What you did instead was blow me up and uproot me and throw me off a Ledge into the bottom of a valley.” He paused. “Which isn’t at all like taking care of me.”
Frank frowned, suddenly worried.
“I’m thinking,” continued the tree, “that he’ll hang you from the bottom of the galaxy by your entrails and pour molten stars over your twisting body for all of eternity.”
“I have an idea!” said Frank, grinning again. “Why don’t you not tell him?”
“Hmm. Interesting proposal. Unexpected. Fresh.” The tree appeared to consider for a bit. “But I think I’ll go ahead and tell him.”
“I’ll give you something if you don’t.”
“Much better. You’ll get the hang of this yet. No.”
“I’ll put you back on the Ledge. Where you came from.”
“No.”
“I could introduce you to some sweet little maples looking for a good time.”
“I’m more of self-pollinator, but thanks. No.”
“I know! I’ll plant you in … umm … what do they call it? That place with the Man and the Woman. With all the vegetables and animals and such.”
“You haven’t destroyed that yet?”
“No. It’s kind of far away.”
The tree thought. It would be nice to be nestled in the midst of a pleasant garden for a while, instead of clinging to the side of a high ledge, exposed to rough winds and blistering noonday suns. He’d probably get pissed and shat on a lot more, but, on the whole, it might be just what he needed.
“Deal. Take me to Eden.”
“Great.”
And so Frank lifted the tree onto his back and ran as fast as he could for seven days and seven days and seven days more, until he reached the Garden of Eden. He planted the tree in the center of the garden, grinned, and ran away before it could change its mind.
The tree passed many months of quiet pleasure in this place. It was peaceful, and temperate, and lovely in every way. He began to grow leaves and bear fruit, for the first time in his life: soon he was sagging under the weight of oranges and pears and apples and cumquats and pineapples. The place was miraculous.
It was also extremely dull. Nothing ever happened. Birds sang, squirrels scurried, ants marched here and there with great purpose and authority. But that was it. By the time the woman found him, he was almost out of his mind with boredom.
She came out of the underbrush suddenly, and stood before him with an expression that was a mixture of fear and resolve and defiance. The tree wasn’t sure what he’d done to provoke this odd collection of emotions, but he liked the fact that a naked woman was standing in front of him, so he didn’t worry too much about it.
She stared for a long time, and finally — slowly — smiled. He felt a sudden surge of mischief thrill through his bark, and ramify down his branches and branchlets until it tickled the tips of his furthest leaves. Maybe there was some fun to be had in this place after all.
“Hey Baby,” said the Tree of No Ledge, leering down at the woman. “You hungry?”