Power Struggle

by Ryan Krause

brown, coil, gurgling, dangerous, headache, constant

The King used a pond for Andrew's torture. It gave the queen a headache. Her husband was constantly overreacting.

The King's henchman-puppet pushed poor Andrew underwater once again and he wriggled like a salted worm.

The King just sat there. Watching. Smiling from afar, up up up.

The Queen entered the scene and yelled from low low low.

"Mason!"

That was his birth name, but he liked going by "King"

"Mason! Just what do you think you are doing to that poor young man?"

"He called me a dumbdumb head."

The queen sided with Andrew, but didn't dare tell him in front of the entertained crowd of villagers. Not because she was afraid of Mason's wrath, but his delicate spirit. The humongous ego comprised of wafers. Brittle cracker-cookie ego. She didn't want to break him. She was the one who governed the country in the first place. Like a post-FDR stroke America. If you didn't know, FDR's First Lady ran the joint after his health caused a national earthquake. So yes, the Queen thought the King was a moron and didn't want to bruise him. She loved him. But what she did do was more embarrassing. Andrew's head was forced underwater once again by the black-leathered torture guy, the Queen bullied her way through the cheering crowd. One middle-aged peasant tried to stop her. He didn't know it was the Queen because she shoved him from behind so he didn't see her face before blurting out "Hey! What's the big idea?" That guy was shut up real fast when he noticed who he was really being a weiner face to. That taught him. She shoved him out of her way and looked onward to her destination. She shredded through more peasants, tripped a couple times on her dress, but moved onward. She noticed now the torture guy was wearing PLEATHER. Gross. "We can afford better torture-wear" she thought, then marked it in her memory bank. She marched up the stairs of the platform, clunk clunk clunk clunk. The crowd gasped. They had no idea what to think. The Queen always meant business. She was dangerous as a hornet's home when it's stabbed with a short pole. The torture guy pulled the gurgling Andrew up and out of the pond. It was brown sludge water. She couldn't believe it. Some animals were treated better. Poor dear Andrew. And all because her idiot husband's feelings were hurt? Some guy! As she stood on the platform in front of the crowd, she became nervous. Like she was expected to perform a soliloquy. They must have thought she was going to speak. But why bother about formality. Andrew was in danger! The pleathered torturer stood there completely still, holding the coughing flailing spitting Andrew by the scruff of his neck. The torture guy stared at the Queen with no life behind the eyes of his mask. The queen looked at him, then the crowd, then Andrew, and the crowd one more time. She thought something, then stepped close to the poorly dressed executioner, whispered in his ear and in that instant he let go of his victim who coiled onto the floor like a bed of angel-hair pasta. The executioner removed his mask and walked dejectedly down the stairs of the platform, head hanging down down down. Clunk clunk clunk clunk.. The crowd booed him and called him names. He was awful sad at his failure. The queen knelt down and cradled Andrew in her arms. He looked at her with kind eyes. He was grateful. She looked out to the king who was sitting in his high majestic loft. She smiled at him, looked down at Andrew and laid one on him. A big heavy make-out kiss. Andrews eyes became dish plates. Surprised, and gleaming. She didn't care that his mouth had been full of poo-water moments before. This was revenge. The King grew very sad. "Long live the Queen!"