The Tale of Penisocchio

The Tale of Penisocchio

Once upon a time, there was a greedy little man who wanted everything.

Towers with his name. Gold toilets. His own throne.

So he made a deal with the devil.

But the devil wasn’t red with horns — he had ice-blue eyes, a judo belt, and a smirk that never left his lips.

His name was Putinus.

“I will give you all you desire,” said Putinus. “Power, parades, armies, even a country to rule. But there is a catch.”

The little man didn’t care about catches.

He signed at once.

And so the curse began.

With every lie he told, a certain part of him would shrink.

He lied about his net worth.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

He lied about women.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

He lied about votes.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

He lied about crowds.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

He lied about enemies.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

He lied about “perfect calls.”

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

The louder he lied, the faster he shrank.

So he began to overcompensate.

He built towers with his name in screaming gold letters.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

He planted flagpoles twice the size of anyone else’s.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

He stuffed the Oval Office with gaudy curtains and chandeliers.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

He parked a giant airplane behind him at rallies, a billboard with wings.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

He wore absurdly long ties, dangling like red ropes to his knees.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

He rolled tanks through the July 4th parade.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

He stacked burgers and fries into towers of grease.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

He shouted at his rallies until the speakers shook.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

Then came Marco Pubio, snickering about his “little hands.”

The puppet turned red, flailing his tiny fingers.

“There’s no problem there, I guarantee you,” he barked into the microphone.

But the curse didn’t care.

Shrink. Shrink. Shrink.

Everywhere he went, the pattern followed:

The bigger the show, the smaller the manhood.

The villagers laughed openly now.

Every boast was another balloon squealing down to nothing.

And in the shadows, Putinus pulled the strings, sipping vodka, smiling coldly.

“Dance, Penisocchio. Dance.”

At last, there was nothing left to measure.

Just a hollow puppet, thrashing in gilded rooms, surrounded by giant toys, shriveled to nothing by his own deceit.

And the devil laughed loudest of all.

He laughed, and laughed, until the puppet shrank so small the strings went slack.

And when the villagers stopped listening, when they turned their backs and moved on, there was nothing left to laugh at.

No puppet. No stage. No audience.

The laughter died in his throat.

For Penisocchio, the cruelest curse is to be forgotten.

And so both puppet and master were tossed into the dustbin of history — not remembered, not feared, not even hated. Just gone.