Gregory Picklebottom's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Gregory Picklebottom wanted, more than anything, to become a cucumber. This was strange, because his head was already a giant pickle. But a pickle is only a cucumber that gave up, and Gregory refused to give up. He tugged his handlebar mustache and studied the man on the ground before him. The man had been a butcher yesterday. Today he was a cucumber, curled in the grass, silent. Gregory crouched. His googly eye rolled. The tiny eye on his chin blinked at the dirt. "A transformation," he said, tapping the cucumber with his rubber chicken hand. "Someone in this world knows the recipe. And that someone will teach it to me." He had tried everything else. He had questioned pigeons, certain they were IRS agents hiding the secret. He had opened his briefcase and consulted his wet sock. The sock said nothing. His famous detective methods, which he believed were the greatest alive, had led him in a circle back to this cold cucumber and no answers. So Gregory did the last thing left. He walked into the garden that grows where no one plants it. Flowers snapped at his Crocs. Vines with blinking eyes turned to watch. Impossible blooms erupted from the soil with every step. At the center stood something enormous and old, half tree and half nightmare, its trunk knotted with glowing mushrooms. This was Zinzubaroth, the ancient god of the garden. A tiny sun burned inside his chest. His head was a swirling hole leading somewhere endless. Seven screaming sunflowers ringed his crown. Gregory hated the number seven. He looked at his own boots instead and cleared his throat. "Pardon my intrusion, most honored vegetable lord," Gregory said, bowing so low his armor creaked. "I seek the secret of turning a man into a cucumber. I wish to become one myself." The god spoke in many voices at once, in the whisper of roots and the hum of dreams. "YOU ASK TO SHED YOUR SHAPE. FEW ASK. FEWER SURVIVE THE ASKING." "I survive most things," Gregory said. "I fear only sandwiches." A vine slid forward. In its grip hung a single seed, pale blue, dripping nectar. "THE CHANGE IS A SEED," Zinzubaroth said. "SWALLOW IT UNDER A FULL GARDEN MOON. YOU WILL BEGIN TO TURN. BUT THE SEED FEEDS ON WHAT YOU LOVE MOST. IT WILL TAKE A PRICE YOU CANNOT NAME YET." Gregory did not hesitate. He plucked the seed with his rubber chicken hand and dropped it into his briefcase, beside the wet sock. "I accept." The sunflowers screamed louder. The god's sun flared. "THEN GO. WHEN THE MOON IS FULL, YOU CHOOSE. AND THE GARDEN WILL COME TO COLLECT." The vines withdrew. The flowers closed. Gregory turned and walked out, briefcase heavier than before. He had his answer at last. He also had a debt he did not understand, and a moon that would soon be full.