Masterson Hegel was born with big old lobster claws in place of hands.
“Woe is me,” cried his mother when she saw what had befallen him. “My son has been born with big old lobster claws in place of hands!”
“Somebody call 9-1-1!” cried the nurse.
“Everyone, calm down,” intervened Masterson. “After all, lobster claws are considered a delicacy, particularly when dipped in butter sauce.”
“But you’ll never find a wife this way,” lamented his mother.
“And who cares if I don’t?” replied Masterson.
“He makes a good point,” said the nurse. “After all, in terms of societal norms and expectations, it’s much better to be a lifelong bachelor than an old maid.”
“As I was saying,” said Masterson.
“Be that as it may,” said his mother, “the problem in your case is that without a wife, when you grow up there won’t be anyone around to do the invisible household labor such as changing the toilet paper roll when it runs out, and with those lobster claws of yours, changing the toilet paper roll could take all morning which would lead to you showing up late for work and getting written up by your manager and eventually getting fired altogether.”
“Hmm,” said Masterson. “I see what you mean. Not to worry, mother. I’ll think of a solution.”
And so he did: as soon as he came of age, Masterson headed out to the nearest corner tavern (it was on the corner) and sidled up to a fetching young woman at the bar. As it turned out, the fetching young woman in question was none other than Genevieve Bustelo, heiress to the Bustelo Wholesale Tumbleweed fortune. Or, rather, not heiress to the Bustelo Wholesale Tumbleweed fortune, because her father had just finishing frittering away all the money he’d made collecting tumbleweed in the deserts of Hermosillo, Mexico and selling it to Hollywood movie studios to use in the production of movies in which tumbleweed was required (whether for specific purposes or merely to enhance the general ambience) on – if you can believe this – fritters. He discovered them relatively late in life thanks to a chance encounter at the Brunei International Airport, through which he was passing on his way back home following a photo safari in the Borneo lowland rainforests during which he’d been hoping to snap an image or two of the elusive Bornean clouded leopard but in the end been forced to settle instead for a handful of black-browed babblers and a sun bear. Anyhow, with one bite of the cucur, as the Bruneian version of the deep-fried snack is known, the tumbleweed titan forgot all about his photo safari failures and set his sights henceforth on sampling every variety of fritter known to man, from Japanese takoyaki to savory Caribbean conch fritters. In pursuit of this goal, he effectively abandoned his tumbleweed business, and with no more money consequently coming in, it wasn’t long before the cost of travel in combination with the cost of the fritters themselves had bled him dry.
Nonetheless, Genevieve had grown up accustomed to certain luxuries and privileges, and she didn’t intend to give her heart to a man who wasn’t going to be able to provide her with the means to continue enjoying them. As such, she explained to Masterson, that pretty much took him out of the running considering that in the age of the so-called knowledge (or information) economy, not being able to type on a computer on account of one’s lobster claw hands represented a significant disadvantage in the labor market.
But as part of his plan, Masterson had fully anticipated such objections, and already had a line of bunk ready to respond with. “Listen,” he said. “During this extravagant childhood you keep talking about, someone must have read you a fairy tale or two.”
“And so what if they did?”
“Well, if you’ve ever read a fairy tale, it should be obvious that, since people aren’t naturally born with lobster claws in place of hands, I’m suffering the effects of a curse put on me by an evil witch that can only be broken by the kiss of true love. And by kiss, I think we all know what the fairy tales are really referring to are the delights of the wedding night. Getting to the heart of the matter, of all the curses an evil witch could have put on me, why do you think she would have chosen to turn my hands into lobster claws. The answer is merely obvious: because I have incredibly beautiful hands, they’re my greatest asset, from which it follows that if you marry me and break the curse, I’ll be all set up to make the kind of fortune in the hand modeling business that your tumbleweed trading father could only have dreamed of.”
Seeing that Masterson’s logic was unimpeachable, Genevieve agreed on the spot to become his wife. But the morning after the wedding night, when she reached out to take his elegant hands in hers, she was distraught to discover the same old lobster claws that had made it so difficult for him to put on his tuxedo the afternoon before.
“You lying bastard!” she hollered. “You’d better figure out a solution to this situation or I swear to God I won’t give you a moment’s peace for the rest of your life – and believe you me when I tell you that you have no idea just what kind of a merciless nagging shrew I’m capable of turning into.”
That was when Masterson realized it was time to see a doctor about his condition. Unfortunately, neither the doctor Masterson saw, nor the doctor to whom the doctor Masterson saw referred him, nor the doctor to whom the doctor to whom the doctor Masterson saw referred him referred him, could uncover its cause, nor, therefore, prescribe a solution. Stranger still, in the various examinations to which he was subjected, it came to light that the lobster claws he’d been born with in place of hands weren’t even real lobster claws: they were actually model lobster claws made of foam and several coats of acrylic paint.
“Well that really bites the big one,” said Genevieve when Masterson gave her the news. “Not only is there no future for you in the hand modeling business, but those ugly things won’t even come in handy if we end up stranded on a desert island, or high up in the Swiss Alps, and develop a hankering for seafood. Worse yet, I’m pregnant! Okay, I’m not technically pregnant, but I do plan on getting a small chihuahua and referring to it as my child.”
Things may have seemed dire for the newlyweds in that moment, but ultimately – as is so often the case in fairy tales – all was well that ended well. That’s because thanks to the fact that foam and acrylic paint don’t conduct electricity, Masterson was able to go into business hanging Christmas lights for festive mermaids, and in this manner easily earn enough money to keep Genevieve and her chihuahua in the chips for the rest of their days.