Hey, you know I was just as poor as Jack. My ma worked just as harder—harder even—as his ma ever did, and my dad had run off too. So, you tell me. Why he get all the luck? You think I hadn’t gone to the market a thousand times for scraps of food? Is it my fault I’m too smart for every crook and con artist out there trying to sell us village rats nothing for something?
Oh no. But Jack, the dullest boy in the village, the only one dumb enough to trade his cow for beans that wouldn’t feed a cat with half-a-stomach, oh, Jack grows one big vine and suddenly he’s living in a real house in town, not out here with us rats and losers. And has he ever come round to say hello? He ever give so much as a coin to any of us?
What’s so special bout a big vine? That stupid vine isn’t even there anymore. He cut it down. Keeping his luck from the rest of us, I say, cause why else would he do something like that? My ma tried to take a cutting from that vine. You know, see if we could grow something like that too. Damn thing didn’t sprout nothing.
So, yeah, maybe I went a crazy on Jack. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve done what I done. But what would you’ve done if you’d gone to an old friend and asked for help–just a few coins to help out your ma–and your now rich and hoity-toity friend offered you beans?
And they think I’m crazy.