The Prince and the Diddler – A Hilarious Tale of Spells, Recipes, and Last Breakfasts

Once upon a time, in a grand and peculiar kingdom, there lived a rotund Prince whose immense girth offended his father, the King, beyond all reason. The King, an impatient man obsessed with decorum and appearances, declared that his son’s gluttony was an unforgivable crime against the royal image. And so, in a fit of royal displeasure, he ordered that the Prince’s mouth — along with the rest of his head — be removed.

However, because the Prince was of noble blood, his execution had to be carried out with the utmost ceremony, in strict accordance with the ancient laws governing the punishment of aristocrats. The first rule dictated that executions must be held precisely at noon on a Sunday, when all the kingdom’s people were free from work and could gather to witness the grim spectacle.

Thus, the Prince was cast into a lavishly furnished dungeon, equipped with velvet cushions, plush rugs, and a fully stocked wine cabinet—comfort fit for someone awaiting decapitation.

The Dilemma of a Final Meal

On the eve of his execution, the Prince found himself restless, but not for the reasons one might expect. It was not fear of death that kept him awake but the matter of breakfast. Royal tradition allowed a condemned noble to order whatever they pleased for their last meal, and the Prince was paralyzed by indecision.

Should he indulge in a hearty savory feast of a dozen sausages, a dozen rashers of bacon, and a dozen eggs, all served with golden slices of toast? Or should he opt for the sweet delights of cream puffs, sugared bread rolls, and stacks of syrup-drenched pancakes?

As he mulled over this grave decision, a quiet click echoed from the corner of the room. By the flickering candlelight, the Prince saw the wardrobe door creak open and a strange little figure emerge.

The Mysterious Visitor

Out stepped a creature unmistakable in appearance—a diddler. Diddlers were rare beings said to haunt the deep hours of the night, often glimpsed only by the inebriated or those condemned to fate worse than hangovers. With three eyes, three ears, and three noses, the creature was instantly recognizable and, equally, notoriously known for mischief.

“Have you come to set me free?” the Prince asked, sitting up hopefully.

“You know well that a diddler never frees anyone. We only bring gifts,” replied the Diddler with a sly grin.

“Then give me a key,” the Prince grumbled.

Instead, the Diddler handed him a huge, dusty tome, bound in cracked leather and heavy with age.

“A book?” the Prince sighed. “Not much use to a man losing his head, but I suppose it’s better than staring at the walls.”

With a wink, the Diddler climbed back into the wardrobe, the door shutting softly behind him.

The Strange Book of… Recipes?

The Prince opened the tome and began reading by candlelight. The text was written in an old, twisting script, barely legible. The first line read:

“First, take the tongue and innards of a newborn calf and soak them in cold water for three days…”

The Prince’s eyes widened. A book of spells! Surely within these pages would be a spell to open doors or whisk him away to safety—or at least to a nearby tavern.

But as he read on, each spell proved more absurd and impractical than the last. Where, for instance, could one find dragon’s eyeballs or maiden’s virtues these days? Furthermore, the instructions all seemed suspiciously edible. In fact, the more the Prince read, the hungrier he grew. Slowly, he came to an astounding conclusion:

It wasn’t a book of spells—it was a cookbook.

A Curious Breakfast Request

When morning came, the jailer and servants arrived to prepare the Prince for his final appearance. As they brushed and dressed him in the finest execution robes, the jailer inquired:

“Have you decided what you’ll have for your last breakfast, my Prince?”

Without hesitation, the Prince answered:

“Yes. The cook will require the tongue and innards of a newborn calf, soaked for three days, followed by a pinch of powdered nightshade, a sprig of wormwood, and just a dash of crushed phoenix feather, if available.”

The jailer blinked in confusion but took the order down dutifully.

Whether the cook managed to prepare such an outlandish meal, history does not record. Nor is it clear whether the Prince survived long enough to taste his peculiar breakfast, or if the Diddler’s book held secret spells after all. Some say that when the executioners opened the dungeon door, they found nothing but a messy pile of breakfast ingredients—and a single, dusty cookbook resting on the Prince’s chair.

As for the Diddler, no one ever saw him again… except, perhaps, after too many pints at the local inn.

Moral of the Story:

Sometimes the gift you didn’t ask for is the one that feeds your curiosity—or your belly. Also, beware of midnight visitors bearing books instead of keys!