Saturday, May 31, 2008

Something About Crowns

I'm trying to use this random word generator to get my juices flowing this morning and so far it has given me:


"Nice closet," said the king as he chatted up the showgirl. "I've not seen many like it in the course of my reign." She batted eyelashes so huge and artificial it was a wonder she didn't fall over. Luckily her sturdy Ukrainian feet provided an unbeatable counterweight. She could have hung heavy rocks from her eyelids and still remained upright.

Speaking of her remaining upright, this was becoming an increasing problem for the king. As she lead him from her dressing room to the bar, he was beginning to wonder if droit de seigneur meant anything these days. Fair enough, he was just a king, not necessarily her king, and if you wanted to get technical, the right only applied to wedding nights, and was probably apocryphal anyway. But still, wasn't kingfucking like starfucking? Weren't showgirls into that kind of thing? Dammit, didn't a crown count for anything these days?

In fact, the crown may have been a bit of a problem, but it was a point of pride for him to wear it everywhere. Sure, it was a little old fashioned, and sometimes people looked at him like it was the wrong thing to do, the haberdashery equivalent of eating one's salad with the fish fork. But he didn't get this: kings wear crowns, right? He was a king, ergo he would wear a crown so people didn't forget it. He wasn't weird about it: he didn't carry an orb and scepter around as well, or insist on being draped in ermine at all times. And it was a nice crown, a demure crown, a crown with a lowercase "c". More of a lightly bejeweled gold circlet really. When he was feeling festive enough he was known to wear it at a jaunty angle, as if to say "I am a king, but I'm a fun king."

The crown was set at said angle tonight, but it wasn't having the desired effect. The showgirl made a point of being politely flirtatious, but in a way that clearly stated "I'm an entertainer", while giving no trace of the "prostitution is a kind of entertainment" subtext he was so desperately looking for. It was becoming increasingly obvious that he had set his cap —er, crown— at the wrong sort of showgirl, the moonlighting law student type who rarely offered "extras" (and even the ones that did were usually only in it for the blogging). Resigned, he gave a weary sigh, straightened his crown, ordered another rum and coke, and asked the young lady what she thought of the ICC's relevance in relation to the rights of sovereign nations, monarchies in particular. She replied that it mattered whether they were signatories or not, but indicated that international copyright law, particularly the expansion of the Berne convention, was more her line.

The king deflated just that much more.

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