ME! ME! ME! ME! ME!

“ME! ME! ME! ME! ME!” were the first words Justice heard uttered by the King. Apropos.

But Justice was not Justice anymore. He was “New Groom.” Old Groom had told him to, “Forget your name. Your name is dead here. You are your job, that is all. You are New Groom. And you had better answer to it. Because if you don’t…” Old Groom sliced a finger across his throat.

“New Groom.” He nodded at Old Groom, running the name through his mind again, New Groom, New Groom, New Groom.

“ME, ME, ME, ME, ME!” The King’s voice sent shivers down New Groom’s spine.

“RIGHT. Second time. That’s us, New Groom. Go, go, go.” Old Groom, a freckled blonde boy of twelve, shoved New Groom forward with the Royal Velvet Throne. It was an intricate mahogany-and-gold velvet commode on wheels accented with swirls of gold leaf. New Groom was sure this King’s toilet cost more than Humble Haven Farm and Westview Farm next door combined.

New Groom kissed the pendant that held Kendria’s ashes and gripped the carved handles of the RVT. He took a breath and pushed it through the doors into the King’s Royal Bedchamber for the first time.

The RVT was heavy. His shoulders burned as he pushed it. It was as if it wasn’t on wheels at all. His body sagged beneath the weight of his royal garb. His entire ensemble was a mustard colour that reminded him of baby poop. He supposed it was some kind of gold colour. Sheathed in watered silk, lined with more silk, beribboned to ridiculousness, he was glad the citizens of Piddleshitshire could not see him now. A white lace cravat choked him and the puffed sleeves got in the way of everything. He guessed the whole outfit weighed about fifteen pounds. Luckily, all the layers of silk and watered silk absorbed the sweat to which he was prone.

As he moved into the inner sanctum of the King for the first time, his heart jumped inside his chest like a freaked-out frog, whether from exertion or stress was impossible to tell. His eyes widened as he took in the Royal Bedchamber. He calculated that two Humble Haven Farms could fit inside this impossibly gaudy, tacky, tasteless room.

Gold. There were no other colours in the heavy-draped luxury. New Groom felt suffocated, as though sewn up inside a gold satin pillow. Sweat threatened to advance beyond his wig’s blonde curls and drip down onto his face. He gripped the handle of the RVT harder, hoping Old Groom wouldn’t detect his nervousness.

New Groom’s eyes found the huge, gold canopy bed with its five-foot sides. Where is the king? Inside there?

He noted the two poor stuffed tigers forever snarling in fake ferociousness at each end of the bed. New Groom had heard their story back home. They were a mated pair kept within the King’s Royal Private Preserve, along with many species, especially those prized by the sovereign for their striking fur or plumage. The pair had been drinking from a pond when struck by the arrows of the King’s Royal Huntsmen. They were the last of this species of tiger.

New Groom noted the malevolent snarls molded by the taxidermist. That’s not how they would have looked, just drinking from a pond. He wished they could awaken. He wished they could awaken and chase this King out of his kingdom. Or take him down and feed his carcass to their young, who just might save their beautiful species. Alas, it would never be.

Three male Cheaps that Old Groom had told him were the Graveyard Cheaps, stood at attention at the foot of the bed. New Groom marvelled at their natural bright-neon-striped hair.

A frail, ancient Cheap, propped up by the other two, appeared to be dozing. New Groom felt his heart lurch. How old was the man? Why did he have to stand here all night? What would happen to him if he quit?

Immediately, he felt stupid. Cheaps couldn’t quit. It was the first time New Groom had seen Cheaps at work. Anger boiled through his blood. No, no, don’t think it, don’t. Don’t let your disgust at this injustice show.

He struggled to keep his face impassive. He put the back of a gloved hand to his forehead to mop the sweat. But his hand shook, so he shoved it down. A mere minute in, and he was already mucking it up. If he didn’t get a grip, his fate would match those of these now extinct tigers.

“HEEKU!” The hiccup echoed through the bedchamber. Old Groom stood on his tiptoes, grabbed New Groom’s ear, and twisted. He made a throat-cutting gesture. Would New Groom’s cause of death be hiccups? He worked to slow his breath to keep the hiccups at bay.

The two young Cheaps opened the window drapes, revealing a drought-stricken landscape. New Groom stifled a gasp as he looked upon the dead trees and cracked earth. After four days of a jostling carriage ride, he had arrived, exhausted, on a moonless night. He never imagined that the wealthy Capitol, Gorgetown, could be so lifeless. How sad compared to lushly alive Piddleshitshire.

“HOLD!” the King shouted.

Hold what?

Delicate fingers curled over the edge of the bedside, then another hand, and another. Three flaxen-haired beauties giggled as they climbed over the bedside, barely clothed, and sprinted to the door.

“ME, ME, ME, ME, ME!” the King shouted.

The Cheaps pulled kazoos out of their pockets and put them to their mouths.

Old Groom indicated to New Groom to take a thick gold rope at the foot of the bed. Old Groom took up the rope at the head of the bed. New Groom noted the loop woven into the end of the rope.

A palomino, draped in gold, backed into the bedchamber guided by a Stable Boy in the fanciest yellow-gold baby-poop-coloured garb New Groom had ever seen. He and Old Groom hooked the ropes to the golden harness around the horse’s shoulders. The Stable Boy urged the horse onward.

The horse put its head down and strained forward. The King’s gold-draped belly rose like a malignant sun climbing the sky to further scorch the parched, dying land.

As the King emerged on the gold platform, the Cheaps played on their kazoos, “Also Sprach Zarathustra.” It amazed New Groom that the King needed to be announced in this grandiose way, in his own bedroom. On the “TA-DA” of the kazoo tune, the King’s orange head appeared, looking puny atop his Sumo-sized body.

Old Groom maneuvered the RVT to the side of the bed. The palomino backed up to the bed again. Old Groom directed New Groom to unhook the lines on the platform and reposition them to midpoints on the frame. The horse moved forward, and the platform pivoted for a moment, then froze.

“PIVOT!” Stable Boy called out.

Old Groom said, “New Groom, push this corner.”

New Groom moved to the corner and pushed on the platform. He pushed until his arms shook, but the platform did not budge.

“PIVOT! PIVOT! PIVOT!” Stable Boy screeched.

SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP! New Groom wanted to scream, his arms burning with the effort.

Finally, the platform swung round, perpendicular to the frame. It tilted up, and as Old Groom ran to steady the RVT, the King slid down onto it.

It was New Groom’s first chance to see the King up close. The King’s face bore no lines though he was in his seventies: no laugh lines, no lines of sorrow, no lines of life. A wooden mask. It was as though he had never known human emotion. And his eyes? His eyes were dead, reflecting no light, no inner life. The King looked like a cadaver. No. Cadavers once had a life. Cadavers once had a heart. The King looked like something that could never even aspire to be a human cadaver.

The Cheaps finished the morning tune and moved toward the exit, the two young Cheaps leading the trailing ancient Cheap.

As they passed the RVT, Ancient Cheap stumbled. New Groom hurried to grab the man’s elbow; his arm went around the man’s waist. “Steady there, sir.” Ancient Cheap looked up at him in astonishment and then pushed him away.

New Groom, shocked at the old man’s reaction to his help, let go. He looked up to see the two young Cheaps staring at him.

Old Groom stepped forward. “The Cheap tripped on an errant thread on the carpet. He’s quite alright, New Groom, and of course he did NOT need your assistance.”

Damn, did he just get this man in trouble? New Groom bowed. “Of course. I felt his strength even as I realized he did not actually need my help. I am sorry, Old Groom.”

“New Groom. Royal Personages of the Royal Household do not assist Cheaps. They don’t touch Cheaps. Certainly, Cheaps do not touch anyone. For a Cheap to touch a person is a crime for which death is the punishment. Mind your place here. Mind your place. The Cheaps are the excrement smear on the underside of a horse’s tail after a bout of explosive diarrhea.”

The King laughed. “Old Groom. Good one. You did starter-up your Lord God King God’s day with a goodly good-est laugher.”

The King stood and bent forward. Old Groom indicated to New Groom to lift the King’s gold robes. When he did, it was not the Golden Ass he expected. The briefest glance took in a cottage cheese surface of straggly hairs, pimples, and dimples.

The King sat on the RVT. Old Groom and New Groom moved to stand at the front corners of the RVT.

The King’s fists balled, his face reddened, and he made horrific grunting noises. New Groom gulped and endeavoured to breathe through his mouth, without being obvious, as anxiety rose in him. His panic exploded as the King flicked a hand toward him. Oh Gods…oh Gods…

The King barked, “Old Groom, whoozat?”

“Mutton-Headed Majesty—” Old Groom began. New Groom’s head whipped toward Old Groom, mouth gaping open. A warning glance from Old Groom made New Groom shut his mouth, look straight ahead. “May I present the New Groom of the Royal Stool.” Old Groom bowed and stayed bowed.

“WHAT? NO. No, you may not be presenting this person-ing. Explain-er yourselfs.”

Still bowed, Old Groom said, “Supremely Stupefied Sire. I retired last month, and they chose New Groom from dozens of candidates who were—”

The King stopped grunting and roared, “YOUR LORD GOD KING GOD CHOOSES. ME. I AM LORD GOD KING GOD. ME KING. ME GOD. ME. ME. ME.”

The King pointed at New Groom and New Groom’s body jerked as though he were a slow sheep poked by a shepherd’s hook. The King, red-faced, continued to grunt. “What he knows?”

“Obese Obtuse Oligarch, the New Groom of the Royal Stool knows all.”

The King stopped grunting, unfurled his fists. His beady eyes narrowed beneath his flop of golden hair. “So Your Lord God King God making efforts for nothings? Effort-ing for no rewardings?” The King’s voice dropped to a low growl. “Melon Head 693, bowler-ing ball!”

New Groom, shocked when Old Groom threw himself on the floor, stood stock still. He watched as Old Groom kissed the King’s pudgy, pimpled feet and blurted in one breath, “My Listless Liege, Ruler of All the Lands Seen and Not Seen, I beg forgiveness for prolonging the Royal grunts and can assure his Divine Dingbat that the New Groom of the Royal Stool is fully versed on his duties and his knowledge is my knowledge, my Lord God King God in all your superior superiority, I, your lowly low of the lowest, begs your divine mercy.”

The King kicked Old Groom in the ribs. “Get up-righted.”

Old Groom rose and stepped aside as Melon Head 693 hurried in, golden drawstring bag in hand. His thin body was perpetually bent beneath the heavy folds of his finest court garb. He bowed and bowed and bowed again, his head looking near to dusting the floor.

“Dimwitted Dingiest Dullard. I live to serve my Lord God King God.”

“Show New Groom, the candy-date for…oh…oh candy-date oh, oh, candy, candy Melon Head 693. CANDY.”

Melon Head 693 reached into the pocket of his coat, pulled out a handful of candies, and threw them into the King’s open mouth. The King closed his mouth, cheeks ballooned out like a squirrel storing nuts. He crunched away, drool running down his chin, his voice muffled by the candy.

“Num, num, num, num, num.” The King slurped a river of drool up from his chin into his mouth.

New Groom felt his stomach lurch. Don’t throw up, don’t throw up. Stop saying “throw up”, idiot, think of something nice. Bluebirds, bluebirds, bluebirds…barfing bluebirds. STOP IT! No, no, no, stop it now, stop now. Stop now. Now.

The King mumbled through his chews and slurps, “Sho O’ Groo ’eweth…’ewith oh-ee-aw.”

Melon Head 693 straightened. “Presenting our Lord God King God’s newest bowling ball.” He opened the golden bag and withdrew a male head with bright neon hair.

New Groom felt the floor tilt beneath his feet as his breath rushed from his lungs. Stop looking stop…oh my gods…breathe…breathe…BREATHE. Old Groom’s elbow jabbing him helped him focus.

The King sucked coloured sugar from his fingers with loud groans. “Mmm-mmm-MMM. Oh, ya, who that again, Melon Head 693?”

“My Crass Crowned Cluck, this was the Westerly Winged Floor Cleaning Cheap who failed to find, and dislodge, the mosquito wing stuck to the upper right corner of the fifth tile to the left in the first row in front of the door to the Royal Rounded-For-No-Reason Office.”

The King’s eyes narrowed, and New Groom felt afraid for Melon Head 693. “The Cheaps bowl-ering balls only rollie roll two times mostly-est cause they are a thinny-thin lot with not much between the ear flaps. Where are the fatty fat Re-PUBIC-an bowling balls?”

Melon Head 693 shifted, looked at the floor, and cleared his throat.

“My Divine Disappointment, we…we are sorry to report we have located none of the Republican rebellious rabble who are determined to abolish your Divine Crown. They have proven slippery.”

The King grinned, squinted his black eyes at New Groom. New Groom’s eyes met the King’s. It was like looking at black marbles. Nothing was looking back. New Groom’s blood turned to ice; he could have sworn he heard his veins cracking as they froze.

The King laughed. “This pale New Groom might be the first Re-pubic-an bowling ball. Or be you Drunk-o-crat?”

New Groom’s body jerked involuntarily. His nervous tic made the flesh below his right eye twitch.

“Are you a spasty spaz?” The King laughed louder. “Old Groom, what have you brought here?”

Old Groom’s face drained to a whiter shade of pale. “M-my Lord God King God, he did have the cleanest cows in the county from whence he came.”

The King narrowed his eyes and looked New Groom up and down. New Groom found his mouth full of saliva, and he had to swallow. It turned into a gulp.

The King said, “It may be entertaint-ing to watch the herky-jerky of a spasty spaz. They are the funniest of funnies, but the New Groom must attend-er the King’s Royal Butter-ocks. And this New Groom has not answered his Lord God King God. Be ye Re-pubic-an or Drunk-o-crat?”

New Groom swallowed and said, “M-m-most Magnificent M-majesty, I-I have not heard of the…the Re-pumpkins? Drunk-o-crats? I have not heard the name, b-but they all s-sound a-awful.”

“Dis-crusting is what they are. Tell them how dis-crusting, Melon Head 693.”

Melon Head 693 said, “The Re-Pubic-ans speak the okey-doke plain-folk speak of the land people and pretend to be rooted in the salted earth while salivating on their silver spoons as they scheme and covet the King’s riches. They would keep the wealthy wealthy while telling ludicrous lies of wealth falling from their lofty purses and landing in the hands of the masses so long as the masses work for near nothing. False hopes kill the joy of life. They are sewing discord and disquiet across the kingdom. And the Drunk-o-crats? So frail are they that they faint and swoon with a slight harsh word and tangle the simplest processes in a twisted nest of rules, so nothing is accomplished. Both wish to topple the monarchy, which is the very stability our kingdom has depended upon for eons. Our stable genius King stabilizes all around him. Everyone knows their place, knows what is expected of them, and what to expect from life. There are no hopes here to disappoint. There is only the reassurance that one need not aspire beyond Lowly-Low and Ordinaries lives. Surely, that is a certainty worth protecting and a sacred one at that: the divine, God Given, right of the King’s rule.”

The King turned his tiny black eyes on New Groom. “Tell me how you attained this most lofty positioning, New Maybe-Maybe-Not Groom of the Royal Stool? No, wait.”

The King turned his gaze on Melon Head 693. “I might have to use these two on the bowler-ing lanes tonight if slacky-slack method-ations were user-ed to choose this New Groom.”

New Groom glanced between Old Groom and Melon Head 693. How was he now responsible for two lives? He steeled himself and said, “My M-magnificent Majesty, I—”

The King bellowed, “BORING!”

New Groom held a whimper in check and looked at Old Groom, who stared straight ahead.

New Groom tried again, “M-majest—?”

“BORING!”

New Groom looked again to Old Groom, desperate.

The King clucked his tongue. “For King’s sake, Old Groom, helping assist-er him.”

Old Groom turned at last to New Groom. “Ah, New Groom, the King is looking for you to use a different title for him. He likes alliteration.”

The King frowned. “Alli-what?”

Old Groom bowed. “Sorry, Stumped Sire, alliteration means several words in a row that start with the same letter.”

New Groom ran through alliterative phrases in his head. Doily Dum Dum, Oily Obtuse Oligarch, Pimply Preening Prat, Lumpen uh…Lumpen…Lo…Lo…Loco…Lumpen…Loco…Le…Le…Le…oh gods…oh gods…

The King laughed and slapped his knee. “Three words with same letterings. I do like that. I do.” He laughed again. “Hey, your Lord God King hasn’t said that for whiles and away. I DO. Maybe time for the new ‘I do.’ New queenie.” The King stuck his finger in his mouth and made a gag noise. “The Queenie getting saggy-sag and loosey-loose. Your Lord God King God cannot have saggy-sag loosey-loose queenie.” He pointed at New Groom. “Speak from your beak.”

New Groom swallowed. “My Lacklustre Liege of Lesions…” The King nodded his approval and New Groom continued. “Melon Head 693 sent a representative to our village of Pid—Gorge Valley, and tasked us with the cleaning of cows given a potion to cause explosive diarrhea.”

There was no potion. No cow was subjected to the potion. This was the fictional story The Old Lady had told him to use.

“I did the job with all the diligence I could muster in order to elevate my family from the dregs of…uhm…dreg…dom…and, well, you could have eaten from my bovine’s behind.” New Groom bowed deeply. “Your most…Ex…Excruciating Excremental Emesis.”

The King nodded. “You will attend-er the Royal Ass-ee-ness. And will speech it as you do and you will complete-er your tasking corrector-ly or you become your Lord God King God’s newy-est roly-poly bowler-ing ball.”

New Groom wiped his brow with a shaking hand, bowed, and moved behind the King. Old Groom turned the RVT around so the King could lean on the back of it while being tended.

New Groom stared at the Royal Ass, pimpled and dimpled and too close to his face. At least there was no poop visible and no smell. Maybe this job would not be as bad as—

The King adjusted his footing, and the Royal Crack widened, revealing a red trough dotted with a colony of white pustules. New Groom’s vision fractured for a moment as he struggled to push down his nausea and keep his footing on the tilting floor.

Old Groom nodded at New Groom, and New Groom took a deep breath and recited what he had learned from Old Groom. “When the King has finished the Royal Evacuation, I will clean the Royal Rumpy-ness from top to bottom and side to side, east to west, and north to south with warmest milk from the breasts of the wet nurses.”

New Groom opened the canteen slung on his shoulder and poured the milk onto a cloth. He then wiped the Royal Rump. “Top to bottom, side to side, east to west, and north to south.”

He stuffed the wet cloth into one bag and removed a dry cloth from another. “And then I will pat dry with silken cloths woven from the wool of the soon-to-be extinct pashmina by the Child Cheaps with the softest hands.” New Groom lowered the King’s robes. “I then report on the condition of the Royal Stool and—”

“STOP,” the King yelled. Old Groom, New Groom, and Melon Head 693 exchanged worried looks.

The King slapped his knee, cackled, and bellowed, “Welcome to the King’s bowler-ing team!”

‍

Exasperating Emperor of Everlasting Egomania

Old Groom and New Groom’s bodies jerked as though struck by lightning. Melon Head 693 stepped forward. “Exasperating Erratic Emperor of Everlasting Egomania.”

The King slapped his knee. “Good one. Melon Head 693, you need not be bowler-ing tonight.”

Melon Head 693 bowed. “Parsimonious Poopy Head, I thank you. And now I beg you to spare the lives of Old Groom – he has seen but twelve summers, sire – and New Groom, who has not yet found footing in the ways of the Royal Court. You are the Best Beneficent Bovine of all Times whose Guiding Generous Genius ha—”

The King roared, “GOOD ONE AGAIN! Parsimonious Poopy Head. Save that one, Melon Head 693. I can hear that one again. And I was just kidder-ing! Hahahahaa! I have a bowler-ing ball for tonight.”

Old Groom and New Groom both swayed, staggered.

“Never mind. OUT!”

As they headed for the door, New Groom felt weak with relief. Thank all the gods who ever were or were not. We’re out of here.

“STOP!”

All three of them, with their backs to the King, mouthed the word “SHIT!” They turned as one to face him.

The King looked around, “thinking,” as if he was searching for something to complain about. “Uhmm…hmmmm…uhhhh…no…uh…no, no, never mind.” He waved them on. They started walking and—

“STOP!!”

They turned toward the King. He laughed. “No. No, never mind, my funny little puppets. Your Lord God King God loves you. Get out.”

The three stepped forward again and—

“STOP!”

They turned back; the King waved them off. “Go…go…go…hahahaha!”

They turned slow. They walked on slow.

“FASTER!”

They walked faster.

“STOP!”

They stopped. Now they tried to follow the King’s instructions as he amused himself. “GO….STOP! HAHAHAHAHA! GO! STOP!! HAHAHAHA! STOP!! Oh, I said that already. GO! AAAHAHAHAHAHA! O.M.K., I AM TOO FUNNY, HAHAHA! What am I like? HAHAHA. Oh, what one was I on, Melon Head 693?”

“Beastly Bumpkin Birdbrain, you were on ‘Go.”

The King narrowed his eyes. “But you are on ‘Stop.’ Stay there.”

New Groom’s mouth went dry as their escape vanished like the final wisp of smoke from his father’s pipe. He smelled it now: the clove, cinnamon, and cardamom. For the briefest moment, he felt comforted in the midst of this madhouse.

The King crooked a fat finger at Melon Head 693. Melon Head 693 approached his king, bowed. The King crooked his finger again to draw Melon Head 693 closer. Melon Head 693 leaned toward his king. The King put his mouth to Melon Head 693’s ear. “HUNGRY! HUNGRY. DR. FILL. DR. FILL!”

Melon Head 693 staggered back with a grimace and hand to his ear but managed to yell, “DR. FILL. SEND IN DR. FILL!”

In seconds, Dr. Fill, the Royal Chef, mustachioed and in full white chef’s gear, swaggered in. Four Cheaps scurried in behind him with a table overflowing with food. Elephant-sized racks of ribs teetered. Wagon-sized loaves of bread sent their fresh-from-the-oven, warm, doughy scent over them all. The frosted cakes looked like circus tents with their glistening icing and tiny Royal flags propped in them. Red, green, and purple grapes spilled from golden goblets onto trays of chocolate confections carved in the shapes of dancing young women. New Groom’s eyes widened. Are those…breasts? Chocolate breasts? And…what…NO! Chocolate lady parts?! New Groom had seen neither chocolate lady parts nor real ones. What kind of—

Dr. Fill interrupted his thoughts. “Blubbery Bulbous Buffoon, Dr. Fill is here to fill your un-fillables. Your fawning Dr. Fill will bend over backwards and forwards to make sure you are as full of bunkum and sham ham and empty airy sugar confections to stuff full that void inside you.”

Who is this guy? Why do they call him a doctor? He sounded like no physician New Groom had ever met.

The King grinned at his chef. “Fakety-fake doctor of food stuffs and your Lord God King God’s buddy of great meritorious servicing, as long you keep bendy bending over for me, I will have happy, happy pants.”

A fake doctor? The King’s cook? It was still confusing to New Groom. What wasn’t confusing was the food.

New Groom felt his mouth water as he looked at the feast. The Groom of the Royal Stool did not eat breakfast before the King, who might not rise until near noon, but for whom he would have to be ready by 6 a.m.

Dr. Fill pulled a golden table from beneath his large trolly, placed it in front of the King, and stood aside, waiting for the King to make his choice. The King pointed at the nearest frosted cake – a lemony confection topped with swirling lemon peel and dusted with icing sugar. Dr. Fill placed the entire cake on the King’s table.

The King dove face-first into the cake. He scarfed it down as the cows on Humble Haven Farm ate from the grass bins in the barn. Who needed arms or hands or cutlery?

The four Cheaps looked longingly at the food. The Ancient Cheap mopped drool from his mouth as the King mushed his face further into the cake.

The King sneezed. Inside the cake. He withdrew his face, and Dr. Fill wiped it with the white cloth slung over his arm.

The King frowned. “This cake is no goodly good no more.” And he swept the cake from the table with his arm. It splattered feet from the Graveyard Cheaps, who couldn’t help staring at it with deep longing and continuous swallows of the saliva filling their mouths like opened river dams.

The King’s anger flared as he caught sight of the sleeve of his nightshirt. A thread dangled there. “Melon Head 693, look. LOOK.” He waved his arm.

Melon Head 693 shouted, “Send in the Swift Tailor! The Swift Tailor! Tailor Swift!”

The King looked to New Groom. “Entertain-ed me while I wait for the girlie thread snipper.”

New Groom tried to swallow, found he couldn’t, and instead tried to speak, “Imp-Imperial…Im-Imperial Imbecilic Ickiness w-would a s-song s-suffice?”

“D-do you st-st-stutter wh-wh-when you si-si-si-si-sing?” The King laughed and laughed at his own joke, slapping his belly.

“No, sire.”

“Si-si-sing away. Make it goodly good.”

New Groom swallowed, his mind racing through a catalogue of songs, and settled on “Scarborough Fair.”

“Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Remember me to one who lives there. She once was a true love of mine…”

It surprised him how smooth and steady his voice was, despite his hypercritical and dangerous audience. The King nodded his approval as he gnawed at a rack of rib, the red sauce spreading across his mouth and angling up in a bloody grin.

The door swung open, and Tailor Swift entered. She curtsied to the King, “My Lord God King God, your Royal Tailor is here to serve you.”

The Cheaps, Stable Boy, and Dr. Fill whispered amongst themselves, elbowed each other, pointed at Tailor, and grinned in smug satisfaction.

New Groom would have noticed all of this if he hadn’t been so taken by the Swift Tailor. She looked as delicate as a flower, but her spine was straight and strong. He had the impression this flower could stand up to any storm. Her long blonde hair hung in tendrils about her fine-boned face, and the slight smile there as she glanced at him turned his legs to jelly. Don’t faint, don’t faint, don’t faint, was all he could think as his vision closed in from the sides until all he could see was her.

He didn’t faint. He “HEEEKEWED.”

NO. No hiccups, no hiccups, please, no hiccups. Next would be the nervous tic below his eye. He took a deep breath, and another, and no hiccups returned, no tic followed.

Melon Head 693 nudged him with his foot. “Finish the song, New Groom.”

He took a breath and sang again. Tailor looked directly at him now. She turned back to the King, and though she held herself in proper court attention toward the messy monarch, the New Groom of the Royal Stool thought he detected a widening of her smile. He sang a little louder.

“She once was a true love of mine.”

Tailor turned her attention to Melon Head 693. He said, “Attend the King’s cuff.”

She turned to the King, and he stuck his lip out like a pouting three-year-old. “There’s a dangly dangle. A dangly dangle. A dangly dangle on your Lord God King God’s Royal cuff.” He sniffed. “Dangly dangle.”

What in the name of all the gods who were and never were is going on here? He’s a child. A child is ruling us. A nasty, spoilt child with life or death in his tubby toddler hands.

Tailor removed a small pair of golden scissors from her satchel and snipped the thread. The King yawned and stretched his arm, aiming his hand at Tailor’s backside. She stepped back and turned to Melon Head 693.

Her voice was lilting and singsong. “Sire, the King’s cuff is repaired as new, and now may I bid you adieu?”

Melon Head 693 frowned at her. “Careful, girl, you come near to song.”

Tailor curtsied, her head bowed, her eyes lowered. “Forgiveness, sire.”

“Get gone, girl, and think on.”

Tailor spun, her dress swirling. New Groom caught a whiff of intoxicating spicy scent with sandalwood and wildflowers as she did. A dusting of happiness settled over him as he inhaled more deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, she was gone. Sadness opened a small hollow in his heart.

New Groom jumped when the King yelled, “OUT. Nappers time.”

Thank you, all the gods who were, and never were. New Groom wheeled the RVT out, fast as he could without being too obvious about his desire to get away from this maniac of a monarch.

Old Groom led New Groom through a maze of narrow stone corridors lit by torches. New Groom knew he would never find his way back. At last they arrived, and Old Groom said, “This is the Quiet Room.” Old Groom called it a room, but it was only a ten-foot-by-ten-foot area defined by heavy gold draperies.

Though relieved to be out of the King’s presence, New Groom felt a weight greater than the King’s gluttonous body press upon him. This childish dolt. This toddler King. No. Not a toddler. Toddlers could be kind. Toddlers could be empathetic. Toddlers could share. Toddlers had a conscience. This King could never aspire to be a toddler.

Old Groom let out a big sigh of relief. “Fudge-sickle! That was too close. This is the King’s nap time and he won’t call on us for an hour. I hope. We park the RVT here when it’s not used.”

Old Groom lounged on the RVT. He pointed to the floor. “Sorry, this is the only seat in the house.”

New Groom made his way to the floor, pushing the heavy brocades of his garb out of his way. At last settled, fatigue hit him, and he wished for nothing more than a bed, or this floor, to nap upon.

Old Groom said, “I will be honest with you, New Groom of the Royal Stool. The job has become too dangerous for me. However, I have in short course secured lands and wealth and Cheaps for my family, and you will do the same not only for your family, but for the wretched Piddleshitshire.”

New Groom’s eyebrows went up.

Old Groom laughed, “Yes, of course we heard of the name change. Piddleshitshire. Catchy. Changes will come to Piddleshitshire with your appointment. Well, at least the High Borns of Piddleshitshire. Nothing will change for the Cheaps and the—”

New Groom’s attention wandered away from what Old Groom was saying as he realized that Old Groom did not know of the King’s plans for the valley and village then. He wasn’t sure what to think of that. Did it mean this onerous position was not as privileged as The Old Lady thought? He hoped not. Otherwise, what was the point? Of course, Old Groom could also be pretending not to know of the King’s plans for Piddleshitshire.

“Right, New Groom?”

New Groom snapped back to the present as Old Groom lowered his hand beside him and screwed up his face in distaste. “Lowly-Lows. You will be able to elevate yourself above the Lowly-Lows. The dirty dirt farmers, grain growers, and harvesters. The cow, chicken, and pig raisers. The butchers, the bakers, and candle-stick makers. The dam builders, well diggers, and water carriers. The wagon builders, wagon drivers, and horse trainers. The map makers, lumberjacks, and road builders. The stonemasons, wood choppers, and carpenters. The glass blowers, potters, and ceramicists. The fabric makers, weavers, and cutters. The hide tanners, shoe cobblers, and saddle makers.”

Old Groom shrugged his shoulders, arms out, hands open. “I mean, why? WHY should those Lowly-Lows share in the profits of the kingdom? What do they contribute? They give us nothing. What beauteous lands do they own, on which we may blow out the brains of stupid grouse? What finery do they wear to inspire us to best them? They infest the streets in raggedy rags, dragging down the look of everything. To whom do they give work and purpose? No one. They only take from the High Borns. Take work and sustenance. And what have they inherited? Nothing. Because their ancestors contributed nothing. And left them nothing. And that’s what they are. Nothing.”

Old Groom shook his head and chuckled. “I am prone to rant sometimes. I cannot help it. The thought of these rabid raccoons trying to oust the King.” He kicked New Groom’s foot. “But, well, you are perfect. Piddleshitshire will be elevated, well, a little anyway. Give it a good year and then get out.” He sat up, leaned toward New Groom, “Listen to me. Get out. A year and no more. Hopefully, before the…the uhm…the inevitable.”

New Groom sat straighter. “The inevitable?”

“Now, to your duties.”

“The inevitable?”

Old Groom got up, walked around the RVT. “You’ve come a long way from miserable Gorge Valley, Piddleshitshire, whatever, hahaha.”

“Old Groom, many of us love Gorge Valley, Piddleshitshire, whatever. Many of us have lived there all our lives and appreciate the natural beauty. We look to the green hills and the newly clear and blue skies, which delight but also mock us – a stark reminder of the fact there is no work smoke billowing from the furnaces there since the King stopped the—”

Old Groom whacked him on the head. “Shut your pie hole. Say not a word against the King in his Capitol. Are you an imbecile?”

“N-no…but…question.”

Old Groom sighed. “What now?”

“Why does everyone insult the King, and why does he like it?”

Old Groom opened the drapes one at a time to look about. In hushed tones, he explained. “He doesn’t know he’s being insulted. His vocabulary is as big as his mushy mini mushroom. He likes the sound of alliteration. Some of his favourites are ‘Parsimonious Poopy Head,’ ‘Dithering Doltish Dunderhead,’ ‘Mutton-headed Malevolence.’ ‘Delusional Diabolical Dingbat.’” He leaned closer. “Best thing? He doesn’t remember if you use them twice, sometimes on the same day.”

“Why doesn’t somebody tell him?”

“Because people enjoy breathing.”

Old Groom ran his hand over the back of the RVT. “It’s fun flying down the hill behind ‘His Royal Numbskulls’ Toy Room on this thing. Just be careful you don’t go all the way into the pig pen, hahaha.” Old Groom stopped laughing, “What the frickety frack?” Old Groom took a breath and yelled, “TAILOR SWIFT. SEND IN THE SWIFT TAILOR!”

Tailor Swift rushed in.

Old Groom eyed her. “That was fast. Swift Tailor, you weren’t listening to our conversation, were you?”

Tailor Swift curtsied, lowered her eyes. “Old Groom of the Royal Stool, never would I eavesdrop upon you. Old Groom of the Royal Stool, Tailor Swift, the Swift Tailor, is only here to serve you.”

Old Groom’s eyes narrowed. “Careful of the rhyming, girl, and your voice is verging on song. Females must remain music-less. Only a lady may sing. And only in church. And you are no lady.”

“And this is no church.”

He glared at her. “You have a smart mouth, girl.”

She bowed her head. “I am honoured.”

Old Groom spluttered, “That wasn’t a— I didn’t mean it as— Never mind.” He pointed at the hole on the RVT. “There is a tear on the Royal Velvet Throne. Repair it.”

Tailor Swift curtsied again, took in hand a sewing needle and thread, and set to work.

Old Groom tapped his foot and harrumphed, though a mere ten seconds had passed. “How are you called The Swift Tailor? You move with the slowness of a…of a…of a…uh…of something really slow.”

A faint smile appeared on Tailor’s face as she concentrated on her work. “A sloth, sire?”

“Sure.”

“A snail, sire?”

“Yeah, okay. Just hurry u—”

“Mohhh-lllaaassis, sire?”

“Stop that or I’ll…I’ll…or I’ll—”

“Go for lunch, sire?”

New Groom felt his stomach muscles contract, and he put a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. Tailor Swift seemed emboldened now, and he smiled behind his hand at her sassiness.

Tailor Swift straightened and curtsied. “Done and through. Inspect it if it doth please you, but I think it is gorgeous.”

“OUT!!”

“Out via side curtain or—”

“NO MORE QUESTIONS.”

Tailor made a quick redundant, and exaggerated, curtsy that made Old Groom roll his eyes. She grinned and stepped behind the curtain through which she had entered.

Old Groom squeezed his head, rubbed his face, moved his head as though his neck were sore. He sighed, coughed, and wheezed like an old man. “O.M.K. Retirement can’t come soon enough. Now. You.”

Old Groom turned to face New Groom who was still grinning about Tailor Swift.

Old Groom glared at him. “Wipe that grin off your face.”

New Groom felt instantly contrite. “Apologies. I didn’t realize I was still grinning.” He swallowed hard, coughed.

Old Groom frowned at him. “Did she amuse you?

New Groom did not answer.

“Well, did she?”

“Uhm…I…uh…I…she…uh…”

Old Groom mocked him, “Uhm…I…uh…she…uh…” and then slapped his arm. “Stay. Away. From. Her. She is the King’s Royal Tailor. She belongs to him. The last thing you want to do is step on those pudgy toes of his because that will be the last thing you do.”

Old Groom crooked his finger at New Groom to lean closer. New Groom bent down and Old Groom knocked on New Groom’s head. “And this noggin will become the King’s newest bowling ball! Are you listening?”

New Groom nodded. “I am all ears.”

“Good. Make yourself all ears and no mouth. Ears make you safe. Mouth makes you a bowling ball.”

Old Groom moved to the nearest drapery, stuck his head out of the opening. He did the same with the other three openings, then took New Groom’s elbow and led him to the RVT.

“Sit.” New Groom did.

Old Groom leaned close. “Now. Keep your mouth shut about what I am about to tell you. The very fate of the kingdom, and your future and the future of your family and the future of Piddleshitshire and indeed the future of all of us, rests upon this knowledge I am about to impart, which must go no farther.”

He grabbed New Groom’s collar, pulled him closer, “Understand, bowling-ball-in-waiting?”

New Groom nodded. Old Groom whispered into his ear. It went on…and on…and on. At first, New Groom’s brain froze. And then, it just kept repeating one word: WHAT? New Groom’s eyes widened. He put a hand over his mouth. He was shaking his head, but he couldn’t shake loose that loop in his confused brain. What? What? What?

Finally, he leapt up, hand to heart. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

Old Groom yanked him back down to the RVT and whispered more into his ear. Now Old Groom gestured with his hand, turning, turning, as though turning a doorknob in front of New Groom’s blown wide eyes.

“I call it ‘The Cracker,’” Old Groom said.

New Groom stared at him. The name was certainly appropriate to its use. But he had a lot of trouble believing what Old Groom was telling him.

“Are you hearing me?” Old Groom asked.

New Groom nodded.

“Then, say it. Say ‘I am hearing you.’”

New Groom croaked out, “I am hearing you.”

“The Cracker takes two people. If the time comes to use it, make sure you have a trusted ally.”

“How will I know if the time comes?”

“If explosion is imminent.”

“Explosion?”

“Then, if you use it…run.”

“Run?”

“Yes. Run as fast as you’ve ever run in your life. Faster.”

New Groom struggled to understand what Old Groom was telling him. “I don’t understand? Why? Why would the Cracker be necessary? WHY would he do THIS?”

Old Groom shrugged. “He’s him. The King who never should have been king. Nobody understands why he does anything. The Cracker is in your bedchamber, under the floor of the wardrobe.”

“Who made it?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Well, the why is self-apparent.”

“Yes. But dangerous. Stand up.”

He stood, and Old Groom flipped open the commode and then popped a hidden button. The commode bottom fell away. Old Groom reached in and came up with—

A turd.

New Groom backed away from Old Groom, shaking his head. Old Groom grabbed his hand and shoved the turd into it.

New Groom recoiled. “Ew!” He opened his hand to drop the thing, but Old Groom grabbed his hand.

“Don’t drop it! And it’s not ‘ew.’ That’s going to be your salvation in front of the people and the court and the citizens of this land.”

Old Groom stepped forward, gave New Groom’s face a slap, and said, “Good luck, old man.” He took off his Royal Groomer’s overcoat, tossed it on the floor, and threw his arms in the air. “Retired!”

Old Groom slipped through the draperies. Gone. And New Groom stood there, wondering how life brought him to this.

Standing alone in a mad King’s castle with a wooden turd in his hand.