CREATING A DEMAND FOR LUMDIDDLES
“Gentlemen, it can’t miss!” Tim Laughingstock cried in the Town Council Room, to a small but growing number of city councilmen, and a skeptical Mayor Hissy.
Tim stood at the lectern in front of the group, with several posters and graphs he had hastily drawn up the night before being held up for inspection -- not by Miss Poodle, who normally handled these things, but by Svarm. Her alluring smile riveted the council members attention like a railroad spike. And Councilman Pertwee had actually gone out to spread the word among the absent members of the council -- “It’s Svarm, not Poodle, with Laughingstock today -- hurry up!” Even retired and former council members were showing up now. Soon it was standing room only, as clerks and a few janitors pushed their way in.
“So what you’re proposing” began Mayor Hissy, “is that we send you out to create an interest, a demand, for lumdiddles in other towns. Am I hearing you right?”
“Yes, ma’am” replied Tim. “When other towns realize we’ve cornered the market on lumdiddles, and further realize what a valuable commodity they are, they’ll be coming back here in droves to take them off our hands. No, not take them off our hands -- beg to buy them from us!”
“But who would want to pay good money for those useless creatures?” This from Councilman Tucking, the town’s fat butcher. “They can’t do anything but hiss and pinch and crawl up your leg!”
“Ah” replied Tim, “that is where some creative marketing comes into play.” He pointed at a poster, in the delicate hands of Svarm, crudely drawn, showing little children happily playing with docile lumdiddles on a green patch of lawn under a bright yellow sun. “Lumdiddles can be marketed as an inexpensive but affectionate pet!” He motioned to Svarm and she pulled up a different poster, this one showing a lumdiddle floating in a bottle of pimento wine. “We simply soak the lumdiddles in some pimento wine to make them groggy -- then tell the kids to keep soaking the lumdiddles in pimento wine once a week to keep their skin nice and shiney . . .”
“And not only do we get rid of those rotten pests” interrupted Councilman Flimbert, who was the town’s biggest wine retailer, “but we can sell their folks all that pimento wine that got wasps in it this year! It’s brilliant!”
“Brilliant, my carbuncle!” snorted Councilman Wangleman. “It’s pure lunacy. Nobody will fall for such obvious fibbery. It can’t be done, not with intelligent people. Why, we’ll be the . . . the . . . chucklebait of the entire countryside!” Wangleman happily fingered his lucky twine knot as the room exploded in applause.
Svarm put down the posters and graphs to step forward. The room went dead silent, except for Mayor Hissy -- who tried to continue a quiet conversation with Councilman Flimbert, until he whispered “shut up, your honor” to her as he, too, ogled the lovely former sorceress.
“Mr. Tim, council members, your honor the Mayor -- if I may?” she cooed. Heads nodded violently. “Thank you.”
Svarm walked up to Councilman Wangleman, who began to sweat profusely while grinning like a simpleton. “May I see your lucky knot please?”
He handed it over immediately. She turned it around in her hand, then held it up for all to see.
“How many of you have such a lucky twine knot with you right now?” she asked.
Nearly everyone in the room squirmed about briefly to bring out their lucky twine knot and hold it up. Even Mayor Hissy sheepishly held one up.
“And how much did you pay for your piece of string?” asked Svarm, still exhibiting a smile that would turn crabgrass into roses.
There was a general coughing and humming in the room -- nobody wanted to admit paying an outrageous price for their twine knot. You could only get them from the twine knot man when he managed to get to town through the woods during the Winter Carnival. They were made by flaxen haired maidens somewhere to the East, who always plucked one strand of their golden hair to include in each knot. That’s what made each knot unique, and so lucky. And so expensive. In Mountebank you weren’t considered fully clothed if you didn’t have a lucky twine knot with you wherever you went.
“So you see” said Svarm persuasively, “if you fine intelligent people are willing to pay such good sums for a piece of knotted string, why not let Mr. Tim try to get others to look upon our awful lumdiddles in the same way -- as something that everyone needs to become happier?”
This time the applause was deafening, rattling the very window panes in the room.
“Thank you, Svarm, for that thought” said the mayor brusquely after the applause died down. “We will take this under consideration . . . “
“I move we give Tim Laughingstock a large bag of the king’s gold coins to travel and promote the sale of our valuable lumdiddle stock!” cried Wangleman, ignoring Mayor Hissy’s baleful glare.
“Second! All in favor jump up and give Miss Svarm a hug!” shouted Councilman Pertwee.
It was unanimous. Svarm got the hugs, Tim got the heavy bag of gold, and Mayor Hissy got so mad she went home and threw her lucky twine knot at her husband while he was napping on the couch.
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