by Bill Tiepelman
Joint Custody of the Brownie
The Blooming Situation Runcle the Elf had never been what you’d call “employable.” His résumé, if it existed, would’ve included such gems as Professional Napper, Mushroom Inspector, and Occasional Lover of Sapient Ferns. So it came as little surprise to the other woodland folk when he was found one morning, high off his bark-bitten ass, lounging like a drunk god in the petals of a magnolia roughly the size of a garden jacuzzi. There he was, sun hitting his face just right, joint tucked between two long fingers like a wizard trying to look casual. His eyes were squinted not because he was suspicious, but because they were desperately trying to remember how to focus. On his lap sat the crown jewel of his day: a fudge-dense brownie laced with enough enchanted herbs to give a troll second thoughts about life choices. “Mine,” he mumbled with crumb-flecked lips, even though no one was around to dispute the ownership. Not yet, anyway. Suddenly, the bushes rustled with the confidence of someone who'd clearly ignored several signs that said, “Do Not Disturb the Elf. He's Baked.” Enter Glorma: pixie lawyer, 6 inches tall, legally terrifying, and vibrating with righteous fury. She landed on the edge of the magnolia like a winged subpoena, her heels clicking like doom across the petal. “Runcle. You greasy little leaf-humper. That brownie was supposed to be shared.” Runcle blinked slowly. “...I don’t recall agreeing to joint custody.” “You literally said, and I quote, ‘Yeah whatever Glormy, just don’t eat it all before I get back from peeing in the stream.’” Runcle took a thoughtful drag from his joint and let the smoke swirl out of his nose. “Sounds legally ambiguous to me.” Glorma, unshaken by the fog of fairy kush in the air, produced a tiny scroll with ominous red wax and several lines of text in microscopic, rage-filled calligraphy. “This contract states otherwise. Signed in glitter ink. Witnessed by three sprites and a horny badger.” Runcle squinted at it. “I was under the influence of... everything.” “And that,” Glorma said with a grin sharp enough to cut through bark, “is what we call consent with sparkles.” The standoff between elf and pixie was officially underway. The brownie sat like a holy relic between them — gooey, powerful, and soaked in enough THC to trigger a spontaneous spirit quest. Birds paused in the trees. A chipmunk stopped chewing mid-nut. The forest held its breath. And from somewhere in Runcle’s gut came a noise that sounded like a horny dragon gargling bong water. “Dibs,” Runcle whispered again. But Glorma was already reaching for her wand… Magical Mediation and the Brownie Tribunal “Runcle,” Glorma said through clenched teeth, her wings fluttering in a way that screamed ‘legal action imminent’, “you leave me no choice. I’m invoking the Snack Accord of 863 A.F. — After Fudge.” “You wouldn’t dare,” Runcle said, clutching the brownie like it was a newborn baby covered in chocolate and weed crystals. “That treaty was annulled after the Great Cookie Arbitration!” “Read the footnotes, my dear moss monkey. It was reinstated after the Muffin Uprising of '04. Page 17, subclause three: ‘Any disputed edible in a fairy/elf domestic disagreement must be tried by the Forest Tribunal of Munchies.’” Runcle groaned so hard a squirrel fell out of a nearby tree. “This is why I stopped dating pixies. All law, no foreplay.” Ten minutes later, the petals of the magnolia had been converted into a makeshift courtroom. On the left sat Glorma, legs crossed, hair in a very intentional power bun. On the right, Runcle, half-asleep, smearing brownie crumbs onto his tunic and looking like a confused old man at a Denny’s at 3AM. The tribunal consisted of: A morally flexible owl named Darren (Judge, also part-time DJ) A mushroom with eyes that blinked suspiciously often (Jury forefungus) And a raccoon bailiff named Stabbie, who was mostly there for the free snacks Darren the Owl banged a stick on a nearby acorn. “The Court of Crunchy Appeals is now in session. Glorma v. Runcle: The People v. That Greedy Bastard with the Munchies.” “Objection!” shouted Runcle, raising his joint like it was an evidence wand. “That’s prejudicial labeling!” “Sustained,” Darren replied. “We’ll call you the Allegedly Greedy Bastard.” Glorma cleared her throat. “Ladies and creatures of the court, I present Exhibit A — a glitter-contract, signed under the agreement that this sacred brownie would be shared.” “And I present Exhibit B,” Runcle said, dramatically lifting a half-eaten brownie with a corner bite taken out. “Which clearly shows there’s less than fifty percent left. At this point, we’re arguing about crumbs and moist suggestion.” “That’s still half a trip in magical dosage!” Glorma snapped. “I’ve licked goblins and seen less hallucination.” Darren nodded. “That’s legally accurate.” Suddenly, the brownie began to shimmer. The room fell into silence. A pulsing glow emitted from its gooey center as a deep voice echoed through the forest. “I am the Spirit of the Snack.” “Oh sweet fungus balls,” Runcle muttered, eyes wide. “It’s sentient. We over-infused.” “Who dares bicker over my delicious form?” the brownie boomed, levitating above Runcle’s lap with the aura of a smug baked potato on acid. “We both claim partial ownership!” Glorma said, trying to look authoritative while the brownie slowly rotated like it was being judged on The Great British Bake Off. “Then let the trial end in fair division.” With a flash of golden crumbs, the brownie split itself perfectly in two, each half levitating toward its respective claimant. The remaining forest creatures clapped politely, except for Stabbie the raccoon who tried to swipe both halves before being tasered by pixie magic. Glorma beamed, holding her half like a hard-earned diploma. “Justice is served.” Runcle took a long hit from his joint and chuckled. “Nah, babe. Dessert is served.” And as the brownie halves were consumed under the fading light of the enchanted grove, both elf and pixie drifted into a shared hallucination that involved a karaoke battle with a unicorn, a sentient cheese wheel, and a spontaneous marriage officiated by a sarcastic centaur. Some say they woke up hours later spooning in the petals, both sticky with chocolate and questionable decisions. Others say they’re still in that trip. But one thing was certain in the forest: custody may have been shared… but that brownie? Totally worth the drama. Take the Madness Home Whether you're team Runcle or team Glorma (or just here for the sentient snacks), you can now own a piece of this beautifully bizarre tale. Canvas print? Yup. Metal print? Hell yes. Throw pillow? That brownie belongs on your couch. Tote bag? Carry your snacks like a forest legend. Grab your favorite version of Joint Custody of the Brownie and let the world know you support magical nonsense and the sacred right to edible equality.
