Kiss the Frog, John

Note: translated from original using AI translator.

John tossed the note with its dubious contents onto the desk and pushed himself back from it.

His head was still buzzing from last night’s whiskey, and the package delivered by courier on this overcast morning only made the headache worse.

The chair creaked — he slowly got up, walked to the window and lifted the sash to carry out his usual routine — to smoke in his office. The street looked more miserable than ever: cars crawled slowly in two directions, honking irritably and calling out to one another, as if that could somehow speed up the sluggish traffic jam. Citizens moved along in a long gray smear, heads lowered toward the pavement — their thoughts occupied by problems worth nothing at all.

He twisted his mouth sourly and took a drag on the cigarette, thinking about how badly last night had ended. Clarissa — now his former girlfriend — had slapped him hard when he’d had the bright idea to mention his ex-wives as an argument for why no one would ever drag him down the aisle again. God, he had just wanted to be honest — and the payment came swiftly.

With a heavy sigh he looked again at the package — a small box with holes on the sides.

“Someone’s absolutely sick joke,” he thought. — “Maybe Clarissa finally snapped and staged this joyless show as a finale?”

John walked over to the desk and picked up the note he had found in the envelope delivered along with the box. Exhaling smoke from his lungs once more, he reread it:

“Kiss the toad — get five times the advance.”

There weren’t many words there to justify such careful reading, but the note had plenty of details, and John would have been a lousy detective not to notice them: it was a small scraped piece of parchment; a sweeping handwriting — clearly written in haste; an emerald-ink blot smeared across the surface in some foolish attempt to erase a mistake. No signature.

Some kind of museum exhibit…

Approaching the box, John lifted the lid again. Inside sat a toad, which, apparently, the author of the note wanted him to kiss. And the toad was looking at him with some kind of desperate hope? John shook his head — “Nonsense! A trick of the light and the aftereffects of a brutal hangover, nothing more.”

Under any other circumstances John would have gotten rid of the box and the note in a second, and forgotten about this nonsense a couple of hours later, digging into yet another case of exposing infidelity of yet another beloved spouse of yet another client. But the fee…

They were small gold coins with sloppy minting.

“Strange,” — John drummed his fingers on the desk. Still, gold was gold, and with the right connections — which John had plenty of — one could sell anything from dubious coins to skin-whitening pills made of ground Egyptian mummies. The pouch was quite heavy. It looked like a decent sum: enough to cover a couple of years’ rent and pay for his niece’s education.

And with five more pouches like that — leave this hated, thoroughly reeking little town and move to the suburbs, get some chickens, write a novel…

John shook his head, chasing the delusion away — reality had shown him more than once that dreams were for fools, and that dreams had a habit not only of not coming true, but of punching you square in the nose.

It was nearing lunchtime; rain began tapping against the glass. He threw on his ever-present coat, grabbed his hat, and left the office. It was located in a high-rise on one of the busiest streets. Still, most of the offices in that old building stood empty — water supply failed constantly, electricity cut out, and there was no heating at all. No profitability, and security to match — the only thing tenants could afford was a decrepit old man at the entrance desk.

John walked down the steps to the street, heading toward his usual corner bakery for his portion of black coffee and some kind of takeaway pie. He hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps when a person of an utterly eccentric appearance ran up to him.

He was wearing old torn clothes covered in endless patches: a stained, yellowed shirt, a vest, and a huge leather belt holding up shapeless, oversized trousers.

“Master!” — the man shouted, approaching John. — “Wait, master! Don’t be angry, I just want to ask!”

John was taken aback: “Master? What kind of dialect is that? And the look of him — where did he crawl out from?”

“First of all, Mister Cross,” — John muttered. — “Second, I don’t have any spare change, pal, go find someone else,” — and without waiting for a reply, John slipped off toward the bakery.

“Master Mistercross,” — the stranger persisted. — “That… that box with the toad. Give it to me, master Mistercross.”

John stopped short, and the stranger nearly ran into him.

“Is this your joke, pal?” — John shot an irritated look at the odd man.

“A joke?.. um… I, uh… I’m carrying out the Queen’s order,” — the man shuffled from foot to foot, but upon mentioning the Queen, he thrust his jaw forward in a proud gesture, then immediately shrank back into his usual meekness.

He reached inside his clothes and John automatically slid his hand under his coat, touching the pistol — a reflex honed over years on the police force, before he’d been kicked out.

There was no need. The stranger pulled out a heavy pouch, similar to the one left in the box with the toad.

“Um… this is… for the box… from the Queen.”

“You’ve got the wrong guy, pal,” — John said, looking him straight in the eyes. — “I have no idea what box you’re talking about.”

“But how could—”

“Hey, Marty!” — John called to the guard, who had come closer, sensing trouble. — “If he tries to get into the office — call the cops right away. We don’t need lunatics around here.”

“Yes, Mister Cross,” — the old man snapped his heels together in an army fashion and saluted.

“Beat it!” — old Marty spat loudly and viciously at the stranger, who jumped and scurried off like a beaten dog.

*What a day…* John thought. A completely strange encounter. And even stranger was his own refusal. That filthy guy had apparently offered no less gold than the advance. He could have gotten rid of the headache in an instant and kept the money. His gut felt uneasy. An utterly illogical decision — yet John felt he’d done the right thing. He didn’t like that passerby at all. Lunatics rarely pleased anyone, but there was something else about him — something one wouldn’t want to deal with at all.

Returning to the office with an enormous coffee, John sat at the desk and smoked one cigarette after another, lost in thought.

He didn’t like today’s events — there was an unpleasant pulling sensation in his stomach.

“All right, pal,” — he said, opening the lid of the box, — “I’ll take you home. It’s not safe here,” — he muttered aloud for no particular reason.

John placed the now-empty coffee cup into the box and was extremely surprised when the toad immediately hopped into the cramped space, as if understanding and agreeing with John’s intentions.

“Is that normal behavior for a toad?” — John asked himself silently.

He put the cup into his case along with the note and the heavy pouch and left the office.

Outside he caught a taxi — he didn’t want to show his car if someone might be watching — and gave the address of an apartment building on the outskirts of the city.

---

“Oh, Uncle John! You’re early,” — came from the living room.

“Why so disappointed, Lizzie?” — John raised an eyebrow. — “Not happy to see your favorite uncle?”

“Nonsense!” — replied the twelve-year-old girl, jumping out into the hallway. — “I just didn’t have time to cook.”

“Lizzie, forget it, I already ate, and we’ll order pizza tonight,” — John carefully set down the bag and pulled off his coat. — “Listen… you still have that cage where Baron used to live — may his soul rest in peace? I brought someone.”

“Uncle John!” — Lizzie exclaimed happily and clapped her hands. — “A chinchilla? I’m so happy!”

“Well, not exactly,” — John took out the cup with the toad and handed it to the stunned Lizzie.

“A tooooad?..” — the girl drawled disappointedly.

“A toad,” — John stated the obvious. — “It’ll live with us for now. Just don’t torture the animal.”

“Uncle John! How could you even think that?”

Lizzie carefully took the cup with the toad and carried it into her room.

---

It was already around ten in the evening; the pizza had long been eaten. Lizzie was engaged in the destruction of paper sheets and gouache paints — that is, creating art — in her room. And John stood on the balcony with a cigarette in his teeth and a glass of cheap whiskey.

*Should’ve agreed to the ransom for the toad. I’d be drinking something better than this swill now,* — he thought bitterly, looking at the neon night city. Melancholy crept into his soul. The rain had long since stopped, and fog rose over the asphalt, diffusing the dim light of street lamps, hiding parked cars and lonely workers in its embrace — those who had spent a couple of hours in a cheap brothel instead of dinner with their wives and children. John hated this city, hated these lights, these gray faceless people scurrying daily through the streets, their petty vicious sins. The only ray of warmth in his life was his niece, whom he cared for after his sister’s death. He wanted a better life for her than the one they’d been dealt. Outside the city would be better — but as always and everywhere, it came down to money.

His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by a soul-tearing scream from Lizzie’s room.

John sprang forward, dropping his cigarette and glass. Automatically pulling the pistol from his shoulder holster, he burst into Lizzie’s room.

A completely bizarre scene opened before him: Lizzie was pressed against the wall, staring into the center of her room, where on the carpet, among scattered papers and paints, lay a rather hefty man.

“Lizzie, behind me! Now!” — the girl crossed the distance to the door in two leaps and ducked behind Uncle John.

John aimed the pistol at the stranger.

“Stay down and put your hands where I can see them!”

“Mister Cross! Please let me explain,” — the man stirred and lifted himself onto his elbows, but upon seeing the gun, immediately lay back down and spread his arms.

“I beg you, don’t shoot!” — the man shouted in panic.

John managed to see his face, and a thought flashed that he had seen this man somewhere before.

“No funny business. Don’t move!”

John frisked him with practiced motions and, making sure he was unarmed, commanded:

“You can sit on the floor.”

The man obeyed and sat down, staring at John with frightened eyes.

“Wait a second! I know who you are,” — John blurted out. — “Mister Whitmore? The missing heir of TechInterprisers Corporation?”

“Given the circumstances — just Richard,” — Mister Whitmore said, awkwardly smiling and extending his plump hand to John.

“Listen, pal,” — John snapped, not moving an inch, — “I don’t fraternize with suspicious billionaires who end up in my apartment uninvited. How the hell did you get here?” — John demanded.

“Well… you brought me,” — Richard glanced toward the empty cage.

“Don’t mess with my head,” — John said in a tone that promised nothing good. — “Lizzie, call the cops. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Uncle John,” — the girl began uncertainly, eyes downcast, shifting from foot to foot, — “but he’s telling the truth. It’s… it’s the toad. Um… I kissed him… and…”

“What?!” — John was stunned. — “Lizzie, sweetheart, didn’t your mom teach you not to kiss strange toads?!”

“Well, he wrote it right there on the paper,” — the girl pointed apologetically at the sheet with scribbles and uneven lines, where barely legible words read: *kiss me*.

John shifted his gaze to Mister Whitmore and only then noticed that his entire right hand was smeared with paint of the same color.

“God… I really am losing my mind. And you too, Lizzie…”

“Mister Cross,” — Richard spoke up, clearing his throat, — “There’s no madness and no mistake. It just happened that I married a witch, and she decided to get rid of me.”

“A familiar story,” — John muttered distantly, still not believing what was happening. — “Married witches three times. Cute creatures at first, then they skin you alive and throw you out of your own home,” — John finally holstered the gun.

“Well, I don’t think you quite understand,” — Richard replied politely. — “I mean, yes, my wife is obviously a witch by nature, but the main thing is — she’s a witch by ability.” — Richard reached to the back of his neck and made a nervous gesture, — “She enchanted me, turning me into… ahem… what she called a ‘totemic animal’… And I thought I was a lion — symbol of the Whitmore line, after all,” — he shrugged in annoyance and dropped his hand.

John sighed heavily; his head was a boiling mess of questions, and he didn’t even know where to begin.

“All right…,” — John said. — “You were delivered to me today. Obviously by someone loyal. Why didn’t he kiss you, then, if that was the case? Why drag yourself across the city to a stranger and scramble his brain?”

“Mister Cross, I promise I’ll answer all your questions — later,” — Richard looked at John imploringly, — “because we’re losing precious time — I, like a fool, dropped an important little thing in your office. We need to get it back before my wife reaches it.”

“Important things aren’t dropped so easily, Richard,” — John raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, but… have you ever been a toad, Mister Cross?” — Richard said dejectedly. — “Fine motor skills are very tricky, you know, and concentration tends to work more for flies than for rings.”

“So you dropped a ring,” — John concluded. — “And you want me to go back to the office at night, where your enemies have probably already broken in — or are about to?”

Richard merely smiled awkwardly and looked at John pleadingly.

“Listen, pal, you already owe me five times the advance for breaking the spell,” — John pressed.

“Don’t worry about the money, Mister Cross, I’m rich and a man of honor.”

“‘Rich’ and ‘man of honor’ don’t belong in the same sentence, pal. Don’t think I was born yesterday,” — John crossed his arms.

“Mister Cross, it’s no accident I was sent specifically to you. My people searched for a suitable person for two months,” — Richard was starting to lose patience, though he tried to remain calm. — “And believe me, I have EVERY reason to secure your goodwill.”

John pressed his lips together and glanced briefly at Lizzie — with a good sum, they could have a decent life…

“Twenty times the advance, and I’ll get your ring back.”

Richard sighed with relief and extended his plump hand. “Deal.”

---

When they arrived at the building, the office window was dark.

“Tell me, Richard,” — after a long silence John said, looking at the billionaire, — “What’s so special about the ring? You’re not risking all this for family nostalgia.”

“Not for that,” — Richard replied impatiently, clearly irritated by John stalling, then sighed and added, — “Without it, the witch won’t live long.”

“All right,” — John said with a sigh and stepped out of the car.

The office was dim. Neon street light flooded it in red and blue, providing enough illumination. John opened the box and had only just managed to feel the ring when a sharp clap sounded behind him.

Quickly slipping the ring onto his pinky, John turned around.

Before him stood a female figure in some kind of monastic robe, her face half hidden by a hood. Beside her shifted the man he already knew — the one who had tried to bargain for Mister Whitmore earlier that day — and in his right hand, clamped like a vise, was a toad…

“Richard?” — John said bleakly.

There was no answer.

The witch extended her hand, rasping:

“The mouse is caught in the trap. Speak — where is my ring?”

“My dear, you’ve got the wrong address,” — John tried to give his voice calm and looseness, — “the pawnshop is around the corner.”

The witch only smiled very widely and nodded toward the servant. He thrust forward what he had been hiding behind his back the whole time — a painfully familiar cage, inside which a small yellow bird was beating itself against the bars.

“Lizzie, no!” — John realized.

“It’s simple, sweetheart,” — the witch’s smile spread unnaturally wide, baring her molars, — “The child for the ring.”

John was cornered. He understood perfectly there would be no deal — whatever the woman promised, once he handed over the ring, she would kill them all.

John nodded tensely. — “All right… you win. The ring is here, with me.”

He slowly reached toward the lapel of his coat for the pistol. The witch watched his movements closely. John yanked the gun free — but didn’t get to fire. The woman raised her hands, and thunder roared.

John only saw the bolt of lightning strike directly into the ring on his hand…

“Lizzie…” — was the last thing he thought before sinking into darkness.

---

“Johnny!” — a saccharine female voice echoed somewhere far away. — “John!” — more insistently.

“Come on now, you fell asleep?” — someone shook his shoulder.

John pried his eyes open and stared straight into the blonde’s cleavage in front of him.

“John, what’s wrong with you?” — the blonde looked at him tenderly and placed her hand on his cheek. — “I’m talking about our future, and you’re drifting off somewhere!”

“What?” — John said dumbly, barely processing.

“Well, I’m saying it’s long past time we got married. I’m not getting any younger. Besides, I got a proposal last week. But I turned it down, of course, out of boundless love for you. I hope you appreciate that.”

“Listen, Clar, baby,” — John replied coldly, recalling the conversation from a day earlier and mechanically repeating the same words, — “I’ve been married three times already. I’m not falling into that trap again. Don’t even try.”

“A trap?!” — the girl was stunned. Finding no more arguments, staring at his indifferent face, she swung and slapped him.

“You worthless idiot! How did I ever fall for you?!” — she downed her martini in one swift motion, grabbed her purse, and with her head held high, swayed gracefully toward the bar’s exit.

John knew — rather, remembered — that she would hit him. He didn’t dodge. He wanted sobriety after the strange nightmare he’d seen. When had he blacked out? What kind of story was that? His soul felt deeply uneasy — and clearly not because of the breakup with Clarissa — and it seemed he was trembling. John looked at his hand and saw that all this time there had been a ruby ring on his pinky. The stone was cracked.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” — John thought, then jolted, — “God, Lizzie!”

Breaking every speed limit, John tore through the empty night streets home.

In her room, Lizzie breathed softly in her sleep — the most soothing sound John had ever heard. He approached the bed silently, sat on the edge, and gently stroked his niece’s head.

“Mmm,” — Lizzie murmured displeasedly and turned onto her other side.

John went into the living room. He knew he wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

---

Arriving early — fifteen minutes before the courier — John paced circles around the office building, annihilating a pack of cigarettes. He was nervous. Had it all been a delusion?

At ten-twenty, right on schedule, John received the package and locked himself in his office.

He placed the box on the desk and opened the lid. Of course, the same toad sat inside.

“So here’s the deal, Richard,” — John said, looking at the toad. The toad stretched, its eyes widening. — “Either I’ve lost my mind and imagined all this. Or I’m completely nuts and when I kiss you, you’ll turn into Richard Whitmore… But before that… I tore a hole in time for you… risked my life — and that’s additional unforeseen expenses, pal,” — John stared intently at the toad, the toad stared intently at John, — “So here’s how it goes: I kiss you — and you pay me thirty times the fee and assign protection to my niece. If you agree — nod twice.”

The toad obediently nodded twice.

“Well then,” — John murmured, bracing himself and feeling utterly ridiculous. He brought the toad up to his face and, grimacing with disgust, kissed it somewhere on the head.