Bluebeard coughed again. He sez to us he sez, “Yeah, I’ve got a blue beard. And yeah, I’ve got seven wives. And yeah, if I’ve heard that story once I’ve heard it a million times. How Bluebeard murdered his wives and hid their bodies in a locked room. But no, I’m not THAT Bluebeard. All of my wives are alive and kicking.”
“We got this, Bluey. Hit it, women.” The wives counted off like so, “A-one,” A-two,” “A-three,” “A-four,” “A-five,” “A-six,” “A-seven,” “Hoicks!” They put their arms around each other.
“See? If I tried to lay a murderous finger on one of them, the other six would clap me in irons before I could say, ‘Hey, I was just kidding.’ But tell that to those village blokes. Every time one of my wives spends a few days at home alone for a little me-time, they come knocking on our door to see if she’s still alive. We’ve had it.”
The wives nodded.
“So,” Bluebeard said, “We’re looking for some space of our own where we can farm or maybe put up a nice cozy inn. We’d have room for a frog pond – and for any other creatures who don’t want to judge or be judged.”
“Please, sir.” The whole fluffle of rabbits hopped forward.