King Louis XIV hadn’t pissed in a pot that cost less than three fortunes since…well, never. In fact he’d never even had to hold his zizi while relieving himself. Upwards of 1,300 perfectly obedient girls, women, and eunuchs had held “the honor” and uncountable more had appeased it. Even when compared to the most bodiless of Japanese emperors, this man was spoiled.
And so it was with the newest of feelings that this eminently pungent man of, how should it be said, incontestable wealth and taste sat awake alone one night in his chamber. He felt…uncomfortable was the word he’d occasionally heard pronounced. Yes, he was “uncomfortable.” It was a decidedly negative feeling. Once in his teens someone dared to snigger when he sneezed and blew a forehead zit. Famously, he was almost kept waiting once. And though he’d somehow forgotten the episode and didn’t number it among his misfortunes, one evening in his antechamber a fearsome wench in red had yawned and fanned herself twice and then left the room when he made a jolly remark. This was his full catalogue of unpleasant experiences. This uncomfortable feeling keeping him awake might almost be droll, if it weren’t so…nightmarish.
Omaha. What in the name of embodied stateliness is Omaha? He stared at the curtains ringing his bed, breathlessly seeking comfort in their familiar folds, anything not to sleep. For fifteen consecutive nights he’d dreamt of Omaha. He was on the brink of putting his head in a “blender.” Mon Dieu! Now he was even referencing content from the dream! He moaned and hugged his knees.
He closed his eyes for just a moment and that was all it took to see the circle of leering, jabbering youths lounging aimlessly around the “mall” fountain. What was this place comprised of 200 vestibules and a ballroom that was at once the grandest and most tasteless place imaginable? And this fountain. It possessed none of the crucial insouciance that lent an air of royalty to the fountains of Versailles. This sad little spurting thing of perpetual orgasm emptied itself of nobility every few moments to the delight of exactly no one.
A stringy little boy with a haircut like an inbred peasant retard, slouched lower than it seemed possible to slouch, made eye contact with His Majesty. A cruel, tyrannical smile ascended to his lips and he mumbled something to the other youths in his group. Louis tried to turn and run, but he couldn’t; he was frozen in place. He couldn’t even blink. His eyes were locked with this little sprite. And then, for the second time in his life, he felt himself blushing.
This, of course, was all it took. The little sprite made a sound like a stoat in rut and the group of degenerates looked over at His Majesty.
“Hey look, his face matches his stockings!”
“Is he a homeless figure skater?”
“Hey even though you’re homeless you don’t have to dress like that. I can tell you where to find some plastic bags to wear.”
The Sun King wanted to tell these unsanctified bastards that, non, We are not homeless, We live in the greatest structure ever built by man. But by their behavior these youths evidently lived in this “mall,” which in spite of its unspeakable décor was unquestionably magnificent. The horrible truth was that its stark contrast with Versailles revealed the latter to be a piss-drenched hall of decrepitude.
“It looks like he keeps all his money in the form of coins and stuffs them down his stockings.”
“Hey I’ve never heard you speak that many words in a row without fucking something up before.”
“Fuck you man.”
“We should like call Mrs. Simmons and, like, tell her to take you out of the retard class.”
“Fuck you man!”
“Naw I’m just fucking with you.”
Maybe it was a misunderstanding stemming from their ghastly form of speech—which, non, We shall not deign to consider how he could comprehend these ruffians—but it seemed as though they were mocking his legs. He, whose calves were revered throughout the kingdom! The pope himself had disguised himself as a leper and ridden a donkey for six months just to glimpse his glorious jambe.
“Hey what’s your name?” asked the little boy he’d first made eye contact with.
“I am the Sun King.”
“Hey King Louie go buy me a fucking pretzel and don’t stick it down your pants cause I’ll know you did!”
“Louie! In drama class last year I acted out a skit about that time you made it with a marmot you pervert.”
“Hey Louie, I read where you once drowned a thousand arctic hares in milk and then committed adultery on top of them with your cousin.”
“That is naught but the hoarse whispering of the coarsest rabble.”
“It’s true though.”
“If We were not the king, We should lose our temper.” Ugh. The language tasted like funnel cake in his mouth—utterly sickening, wholly wrong, and yet…timeless.
“Hey Louie can I sit on your throne?”
Gasp! This sickly little boy—the one who had sought him out in the crowd and invited the crowd to belittle him—was a girl! Will the horrors of Omaha never cease to multiply? With suburban cool she pitter-pattered over to him and sat on his lap.
“Oh.” She looked over her bony shoulder at her friends. “Louie is royally excited.”
“Eh he’s probly still got a marmot in there.”