The Fisherman and Paris Hilton - A New Fairytale

Here is a short story I wrote for Paris Hilton. Well, perhaps not FOR Paris Hilton, but rather for her detractors. I cannot be the only one LOL...

A "hot" new take on an old classic....



The Fisherman and Paris Hilton


There once was a fisherman named Hilton who lived with his daughter Paris in a little wood shack by the sea. And every day, the fisherman would brave the roiling waves to fetch his hungry daughter a morsel to eat as she absentmindedly gazed out the window and did nothing at all.
One day, the fisherman felt a great tug on his line, a yank so forceful it nearly snapped his simple rod in two. For hours the fisherman fought with the underwater beast, until the sun went down and the sky turned cold and grey. Then, when all hope seemed lost and the fisherman was ready to cast his rod into the sea, he reeled in one last time and pulled out a fat, healthy flounder. The fisherman gazed wondrously at his prize, the sweat of his struggle glistening over his wide smile. Just then, the flounder spoke!

“Dear fisherman,” said the flounder, in a rich, clear voice, “you have made a delightful nemesis, but I pray that you let me live. For you see, I am not really a flounder, but an enchanted prince. Please return me to the sea, that I may not die.” The fisherman, unfazed by the talking fish (there were many known in those parts then), smiled even wider. “Why would I kill a talking fish? Surely you would be better on display than in my belly. There is no need for more words about it. It would be foolish to kill a magical fish!”

So the fisherman released the flounder back into the sea. Though slightly wounded, the flounder turned and looked at the fisherman, its head bobbing just above the water. “Thank you, my friend,” he said, and disappeared below the surface.

When the fisherman returned to his shack by the sea, he found his daughter, Paris, sitting in a stylized way near a window, stacks of Cosmopolitan magazines scattered across the filthy floor around her. When she noticed her father walking through the door empty handed, she began to whine. "My darling daughter, you shall never guess!” said the fisherman excitedly, “I struggled all day and nearly into night with an enchanted flounder! I couldn’t bear to kill such a magnificent thing, so I let him go of my own free will!”

But Paris just stared back vacantly. “What the (expletive), Dad! You caught a (expletive) magic fish and you didn’t get anything from it for me? What kind of (expletive) Dad are you? I should call Child Services and have you arrested!” she screeched at the top of her lungs.

The fisherman felt awful. His head hung down and his eyes dropped as Paris moaned and complained. Finally, after her tirade subsided, the fisherman asked her what he should do.

“Go back out to the (expletive) ocean and tell the (expletive) fish to give me a better house to live in,” Paris screamed. “I deserve better than this little (expletive) hut.”

After begging her to reconsider, the fisherman finally decided to follow her demands and returned to the sea. He called out to the flounder over the bobbing waves, and suddenly the flounder splashed to the surface.
The fisherman began nervously. “My friend, I have a daughter named Paris. And while she is a temperamental and selfish girl, she is all I have in this world. She implored me to ask you if you could grant us one wish.”
“What is it your daughter requires?” asked the flounder. The fisherman squinted, uneasy at the request. “We have a hut to live in, but she would like a nice house instead.”
Without hesitation, the flounder said, “It would be my pleasure. She already has it.”
The fisherman returned to his home by the sea, but instead of a dirty little hut, he found a beautiful house. Inside, there were magnificent furnishings of oak and silver and plush fabrics. But Paris sat by the window, an empty look in her eyes.
“See my dear daughter? The flounder has given you what you desired most. Now be happy and content.”
But Paris glared back drunkenly. “(Expletive) you, Dad. You think this house can make me happy? How can I be happy all alone here while you’re out all day? HUH? I want people to love me, totally be absorbed in everything I do. Only then can I be happy!”
The fisherman’s heart grew afraid. Paris leveled a nasty look at her father. “Go back to the sea,” she commanded, “and tell that (expletive) fish to make me famous!”

So the fisherman went back to the sea, and there he called once again for the flounder. Faithfully, the flounder returned to the fisherman.
“My dear friend,” said the fisherman cautiously,” I know this may seem odd. The house you gave us was exquisite indeed, but my daughter is not yet satisfied.”
The flounder considered. “What more does she yet need?” he asked.
“She wants to be famous, and have all the adoration and wealth and attention it brings,” replied the fisherman tentatively.
“Does she have any talents at all from which this fame might spring?” asked the flounder reasonably.
“None. None at all,” replied the fisherman.
“Alright, go back to your home. All of her desires are hers, and go in peace,” said the flounder.

The fisherman returned home, but instead of a hut and instead of a house, there stood a great mansion, with a winding pathway leading through a sculptured garden. In a large patio area, a rave was going on, with all the lights flashing and music thumping and bodies writhing. The fisherman went inside, only to find even more people roaming through the large rooms of the house. Photographers snapped pictures of people surrounding large glass tables, each doing a longer line of cocaine than the last. The fisherman went up the wide, curving staircase to the bedrooms. There was a group of men standing at the doorway to the bedroom. The fisherman forced his way inside, only to find his precious Paris naked in bed with three guys, while video cameras taped them from every angle. Liquor bottles littered the floor, and cocaine piled like snow on the nightstand.
“That’s hot! That’s hot!” Paris cried endlessly during her orgy, until her eyes met those of her father. She saw the tears welling up in them, and his heart nearly made a sound as it cracked in two.
“Are you happy now, Paris? Are you happy now?” The fisherman asked sadly, and ran from the room. Paris dismounted her momentary paramours and chased after him.
“Hey wait!” Paris screamed. The fisherman turned around slowly, his eyes hollow and dejected. He could barely look at his naked daughter, who stood there sourly and unashamedly with her hands on her hips.
“Yes, daughter?” The fisherman choked through the tears.
“Tell that (expletive) flounder that he’s doing a great job so far. But I was thinking, I think, that it would be hot to be, like, the president,“ Paris blurted. “Yeah, the first female President – there hasn’t been one yet, right? – or maybe God. They’re always saying God is a dude. Well (expletive) that! I’ll be the first female God!” She cackled idiotically.
The fisherman glared back at the monster he created. “Paris, I will not do that. I cannot let you destroy yourself this way. I love you too much.”
“Whatever. If you (expletive) loved me, you’d do it! So go do it!” Paris yelled. All of the people around them took pictures of the incident, and many of them cheered for her as she berated her father in front of them.
“No, Paris,” the fisherman replied steadily,” I will not.” Paris flew into a rage and pushed her father, and he tumbled backwards down the long, winding staircase and landed on the marble entryway, dead.
Paris sighed heavily. “Fine, I’ll do it myself.”

Paris went down to the seashore in the nude, to the humble boat her father used. There she posed for photographers before setting off across the choppy waters. Once a distance from the shore, she began to call out to the flounder. “Hey (expletive) head! Show your nasty (expletive) face! I gotta talk to you!” Paris screamed.
Suddenly, with a splash, the flounder broke the surface of the water.
“What might I do for you, daughter of my friend?” asked the flounder calmly.
Paris wasted no time.” Look everything’s cool so far, but since my dad spared your life, I think you really owe him more than that. I mean, come on.”
The flounder considered. “What is it now?”
“Well I was thinking,” she began,” it might be hot if I was, like, God. I mean, the world could use a woman’s touch anyway, ya know?”
“Why did your father not come ask me himself?” the flounder asked.
“He wouldn’t do it because he’s a dumb (expletive). Besides, he fell down the stairs and died. Um, like, thanks a lot, Dad!” Paris replied.
The flounder waited a moment. The quiet lapping of water against the boat filled the silence between them.
“Well? What the (expletive)? Are you going to give it to me or what?” Paris shrilly shrieked.
“You want to be God, yet you have ruined your own life with your selfishness and stupidity. There is only one way you can be like God. Do you want it?” the flounder asked.
“(Expletive) yeah!” screamed Paris excitedly. With that, a huge wave crashed against the little boat, and Paris flipped from its safety and into the cold, churning sea. Lacking even basic skills like swimming, Paris was easily overtaken by the green waters and quickly drowned.

And the tabloids ran her last pictures in mourning.

The End