Gloria the Glorious versus Hansel and Gretel Inc.
The Real Story.
Gather round, kids, for what I'm about to tell you
is no fairytale.
Nope, this is the real, unvarnished,
straight from the cauldron truth about Hansel and Gretel.
You know, the story they've been sugarcoating for years?
Yeah, that one.
Well, today, I'm going to set the record straight.
And believe me when I say this,
it ain't all gingerbread houses and happily ever afters.
So grab your marshmallows and sit tight,
because this story's got more twists than a pretzel.
Let me introduce myself first.
Gloria the Glorious.
That's right, the so-called wicked witch of this yarn.
Except, let me tell you, there's nothing wicked about me.
I was just a humble witch minding my own business
in my cozy little cottage.
And yes, before you ask, it's made of gingerbread,
delicious, eco-friendly, and more importantly,
architecturally sound.
Those candy cane support beams, totally up to code.
Now picture this.
I'm in my kitchen, whisking up a batch of my world-famous
chocolate pie, a recipe so secret it's practically
under lock and hex.
Passed down from my great, great, great grandma,
this pie is more than a dessert.
It's a legacy.
If it ever got out, it'd cause a pie war so intense,
it'd make the Great British Bake Off look like a picnic.
So there I was, humming a little tune
when suddenly, knock, knock, I open the door, and who do I see?
Two kids, looking all wide-eyed and pitiful, clutching
their bellies like they've been starving for weeks.
Hansel and Gretel, cue the violins.
Oh, please help us, Gretel wailed, her eyes shining
with crocodile tears.
Our stepmother left us to fend for ourselves.
Right, and I'm the tooth fairy.
Now, being a witch of remarkable character,
I've got references if you're interested.
I invited them in.
Gave them a hot meal, sat them by the fire,
even threw in some peppermint hot cocoa,
because, you know, hospitality.
But as they were chatting away, I noticed something was off.
These two weren't just any kids.
They had the gleam of corporate ambition in their eyes.
And then, it all clicked.
Hansel pulled out a fancy leather-bound notebook
with Hansel and Gretel ink emblazoned on the cover.
So about this chocolate pie you make, he began,
all innocent-like.
What's the secret ingredient?
Oh, come on.
Could they be any more obvious?
My family's secret chocolate pie recipe?
The one that's been safeguarded for generations,
protected by spells and hidden away
like a treasure chest at the bottom of the sea?
These two were no lost children.
They were culinary spies.
Why do you ask?
I said, my eyebrow shooting up faster than a souffle
in a hot oven.
Oh, no reason, Gretel chimed in, smiling sweetly.
We just thought, you know, maybe we
could help take your pie to the next level.
She said it like she just stepped out of a corporate boardroom.
We're talking global distribution here, Gloria.
Think of the potential.
Your name in lights, cooking shows, merchandising.
You could be the next big thing.
I leaned in, stirring my tea.
Let me guess.
If I don't hand over the recipe,
you're going to wrap me out to the authorities, huh?
Hansel smirked.
Well, we might have to mention to certain people
that you've got unregistered recipes.
And let's not forget the local witch hunters.
They've been on high alert for any questionable activities.
I took a deep breath, reminding myself that hexing children
wasn't exactly great for PR.
So let me get this straight, I said, sarcasm
dripping from every word.
You break into my home, demand my family's most prized recipe,
and then threaten me with witch hunters if I don't give it up.
Also, you can sell it to some chain of soulless,
sell-out chefs.
Am I getting this right?
Well, when you put it that way, Gretel said with a shrug,
as if blackmail was part of her daily routine.
Now, being the quick think in which that I am,
I decided to play it smart.
Do you know what tort law is?
I asked, casually stirring my tea.
Hansel blinked.
You mean like pastry torts?
No, dearies, tort law, as in civil wrongs.
As in, if you two steal my recipe and ruin my life,
I will sue you so hard, you'll wish you were back
in the woods, Gretel raised an eyebrow.
You're bluffing.
Am I?
I smiled sweetly.
Let's just say witches invented the fine print.
You don't want to see what kind of contractual magic
I've got up my sleeve.
At that, the kids gulped.
They weren't scared of spells or hexes,
but the prospect of a legal battle?
Now, that was something else entirely.
They knew they were beaten, not by my magic,
but by my sheer mastery of witchcraft law.
They mumbled a few excuses and hurried out the door,
leaving me to my peaceful life and my pies, or so I thought.
The next morning, I'm sitting down with me tea
and joy in a quiet moment when suddenly, bam,
the door flies open.
And who storms in?
Law enforcement, flanked by a small army of lawyers
with briefcases bigger than cauldrons.
Behind them were Hansel and Gretel,
looking smugger than a pair of well-fed alley cats.
There she is, Gretel shouted, pointing at me
like I was some kind of criminal mastermind.
That's the witch who tried to bake us into pies,
one of the officers sighed.
Ma'am, we have reports of unlicensed magical recipes
and failure to disclose ingredients.
We're going to need to ask you a few questions.
Really?
This is what we've come to?
Ingredient transparency?
Of course, Hansel and Gretel had
lawyered up with the finest legal team in the land.
Their lawyers spun the wildest tale you ever heard.
Something about me tricking the kids,
luring them in with candy and trying to get this,
bake them into cupcakes.
I tried to defend myself, but every time I opened me mouth,
one of the lawyers threw out another ridiculous accusation.
They even suggested my gingerbread house
was a violation of magical building codes.
The nerve.
Finally, one of the lawyers pulled me aside.
Look, Gloria, we can make all of this go away.
No court case, no charges, nothing.
Just hand over the pie recipe and we'll forget all about it.
I stood tall, looking that lawyer square in the eye.
You want my family's chocolate pie recipe?
Over my dead broomstick.
And that's how I ended up here, sitting in a cell,
writing this on the back of government-issued parchment.
But don't you worry, kids, the recipe is safe.
They can lock me up, throw away the key, but no one,
and I mean no one, is getting their hands
on me great, great, great grandma's secret pie recipe.
So the next time you hear someone badmouth in a witch,
think twice.
Maybe just maybe they're not the villain.
Maybe they're just misunderstood and really, really
good at keeping secrets.
The end, or is it?