The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, XXIII.— The Good Witch Grants Dorothy’s Wish

Tonight’s Soundtrack: Elvis Costello, “(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes”


Regarding the notion that his penultimate chapter title might prove controversial in a future era where the revelation of a plot point, or indeed the entire resolution of the story, is regarded as impolite, Mr. Lyman Frank Baum flourished his banjo, strummed a folksy chord, and said, “You know what, son? Crops spoil. Stories don’t spoil.”

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Glinda, I’m not a cop anymore. I couldn’t arrest you even if I had the proof. And I’m not saying you and your colleague in the North didn’t do the land a favor. Not even saying you planned it - maybe you just took advantage of some accidents.

But the fact is, I got two dead magic users with no one to speak for them. And you’re the one who made sure the only physical evidence that could put anyone at the murder scenes is long gone. The Silver Shoes got ditched over the Deadly Desert, and as for this Golden Cap - you say you “gave it to the monkeys”.

Nobody thinks you made up the little girl. She was really here all right. But then I gotta ask: how’d she survive that cyclone?

You paid her friends to look the other way by making them kings. When it looked like he might be alone with her and the Shoes, you got North to use wind powers to send the Wizard on a long trip. And you made sure your patsy got back to that hellhole she started from, way beyond anyone’s jurisdiction.

That’s what I can’t let go of, you know? I don’t know if there’s a saying, but there oughta be: it ain’t the crime, it’s the cover-up. You sit there on your ruby throne and you think that the world’s better with two witchy dictators instead of four, and that's fine, but I can’t stop thinking about the girl.

You told her how to get back to Kansas. You monster.