Why I Can't Have Nice Kings

by Matthew Helbig

  “You just have the kind of face that says, ‘I like to let singing knights do naughty things to me,’” the marshal replied. “Continue.”

  I would have corrected him, but I really didn’t care at this point. “If that’s all you have, then let’s get on with my reward.”

  He pulled out a scroll and began to read off of it. “It is not all I have. After you left the circus, you began to work with the Tickling Bandit.”

  The crowd gasped. “The bandit?” King Berin said. “He hasn’t been seen in over fifty years.”

  “I’m sure Wolo will get to that, Your Majesty,” Marshal Scritz said.

  “You’re that Wolo?” I said. “From the farm? I didn’t know the Lurker and Wolo from the farm were the same person.”

  “Really? I didn’t even change disguises. Wasn’t the bright red mustache a dead giveaway?”

  I guessed I owed Lois Lane an apology. Apparently, it isn’t easy to tell that two people are the same person if you’re not looking for it. “Well, you talked differently, but that doesn’t really matter, because I wasn’t working with the Tickling Bandit anyway. I was chasing her. She took the package we later delivered to you, Your Majesty, and we had to chase her to get it back. Weren’t you paying attention at all, Wolo?”

  “Well, I was kind of busy cowering, and I may have missed a few things.”

  “By the way, as one coward to another, that was some great cowering. You should be commended.” I tried to shake his hand, but he backed away, obviously intimidated by my rugged good looks.

  “Uh, thanks. You were also seen crossing in the middle of the street and not using the crosswalk.”

  “There aren’t any crosswalks in this world!”

  “And he erased all of the crosswalks.”

  “Seriously?” I said.

  “He was also working with a monkey outside of a circus or zoo. Were you not?”

  I looked down at my groin. “Don’t most men?”

  “Not that monkey. I mean the actual monkey at the farm.”

  “Oh, yeah. You mean Mr. Plot Device, or Mr. Monkey, as they call him at the circus.”

  “Not the famous Mr. Monkey?” the king said. “He’s our most brilliant economist.”

  Scritz nodded. “The Sculandians said they’d end the war in exchange for his services.”

  “But it’s illegal to have a monkey outside of a circus or zoo,” Wolo whined.

  “It’s only a five trakon fine, Wolo,” the king said. “Besides, Mr. Monkey has a special exemption.”

  I wiggled my eyebrows at Wolo, though carefully, so as not to shake any of my sexiness his way. “That’s all you have? You didn’t even mention . . . Sorry. I don’t actually have anything.” As is my habit, I had almost blurted out something incriminating, but then remembered—quite unusual for me—that I hadn’t actually done anything incriminating.

  “I think I saw him litter once.”

  The king waved him away. “That will be enough.”

  “Can I have my payment now, Marshal? Spying on him was a lot of work.”

  “I suppose, but you really should have found something useful. Just look at him. He practically screams that he’s about to do something stupid and self-destructive.”

  I shrugged. “It’s true. I really do.”

  “I don’t know why you insist on being paid in jewelry.” The marshal removed his ring and handed it over to Wolo. Seeing that he had been defeated by an opponent who was clearly superior in every way imaginable, the marshal stormed out.

  Wolo ignored the marshal and smiled at his reward. “Rings fascinate me. I can’t stop looking when I see a new one.”

  He held his hand out to display his new ring, and its neat Norse runes. I would have pointed out the inaccuracy of those runes since I hadn’t stolen Norse iconography for my world, but what hadn’t been inaccurate so far? When I got a better look at it—which is extra hard to do while you’re glaring—I realized what it was. My ring! Dyfantus had taken it from me when I accidentally got his nice shirt all muddy. How could I have forgotten? “Hey, give me that!”

  I grabbed Wolo’s hand and gave it a good twist, then realized I had the wrong hand and grabbed his other one. Several guards attempted to break us apart, but I would not yield. I guessed, having overcome so much in my journey, I had finally developed some courage. I knocked two guardsmen down, kept a few more at bay by wagging my eyebrows, and still managed to get my ring from Wolo. Victorious, I turned my glare into a cocky wink and raised my arm in triumph. My arm, unused to being raised in that manner, went a little off course and punched King Berin right between the eyes. The king dropped like I do when I’m playing dead.

  What a terrible actor. I’d barely tapped him. No matter how much scorn I glared into the back of his head, he wouldn’t move.

  Writers vs. Generals – The Travel Edition

  While the guards were staring at their fallen king, I ran for the door. I am an excellent judge of character, and those characters were clearly less of the “wanting an autograph from the creator of the world that currently employs them” inclination and more of the “do a bit too good of a job acting like they want to stab the creator of the world that currently employs them so that they can impress future employers” inclination. While I knew their weapons were fake, fake weapons still leave big bruises. Plus, there really wasn’t anything else to accomplish in that room. I had my ring. My grandpa would be so proud.

  I ran through the first door at the top of the stairs and slammed the door behind me. Pushing with all my might, I leaned against it and wiped the sweat from my forehead. “Since you’re mercenaries, I’d like to hire you,” I said to the people behind me. I hadn’t had time to turn around, but I could see at least one shadow. “I can’t really tell you what for, but you know me, so I’m sure you’ll trust me. I don’t really have anything of value on me, but I could pay you by writing you all into my next book. Just think about all the work you’ll have when they make all of my books into movies.”

  “And what exactly did you do?” I could hear one of them—probably Cat—draw his blade. It’s good to have friends who are so eager. I might even turn them into their own spin-off series.

  “Nothing. It’s all a misunderstanding. If you can help me get the Phoine, which the king just promised to me, it won’t matter.”

  “Ahh, yes, of course. The Phoine. Did you commit any other crimes before you met me—us?”

  I put my ear to the door. It sounded like the guards had passed. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was a good thing too, as my strength was almost spent. Give me a break! I hadn’t eaten a well-balanced, nutritious meal in over a week. I was slightly dehydrated. I was seasick (even though my body hadn’t realized it yet). I’d only gotten nine hours of sleep the night before. I was really worried about my cat—so worried that I couldn’t even remember its name. I likely had a cold. I was overheated. I was on TV, and no one had offered even once to put makeup on me or fix my hair. The sun was in my eyes (by bouncing off the shiny door handle). I had to go the bathroom. And worst of all, I was a writer without anything to write the story down with.

  At least the person behind me was offering me a knife, so I could at least carve a few words into the door. I reached back to take the very kind offer, but the person resisted. I tugged again, and he still wouldn’t let go. I turned around to let my friend know that now was not a good time for tug-of-war but was shockingly not greeted by a friendly face.

  Marshal Scritz was six inches shorter and roughly six decades older than I. With his thin frame and hunched back, I should have had an easy time getting the knife from him, but he held on like his life depended on it. I was torn between letting him have it, as any struggle might cause a heart attack (in him, not me, you jerks), and not being put on television losing a physical confrontation with an old man. I decided that with all of the crap these people had put me through, I’d let them deal with the lawsuit if anything happened to the actor. Besides, they had put him in this si
tuation, not me. I tugged harder, but he still held on.

  “How did you get in here?” I said.

  “This is my cabin. Didn’t the nameplate give it away, or can you not read?” He rolled his eyes and pushed me backwards. “You really are as stupid as the reports suggested. Do you really think this is all some sort of elaborate play?”

  I stumbled but bounced up and grabbed the knife again. “You’re only trying to confuse me, like Berin did by falling down when I barely tapped him.”

  Marshal Scritz rolled his eyes again and stomped on my toes. “Let me guess: you killed him. The one constant thing in all of my reports is that you don’t seem to learn anything from your mistakes.”

  I whimpered in pain and gave up. That thing looked really sharp, and it was probably better to lose a fight to an old man than get stabbed by one. I am a prolific bleeder, after all. “I didn’t kill him. I just roughed him up a little, and how could you possibly know that? You left before we did.”

  “I didn’t know it until now,” Scritz said. “Finally, I have something on you.”

  “Like it really matters in this TV show. I can see the cameras poking out of the closet over there.”

  Marshal Scritz shuffled backwards to get the closet in his line of vision while keeping the knife pointed at me. “Nothing inside but a mop. Probably the mop that scrubbed your brain out.”

  Inside the closet was Cat. This time, he had changed into a white wig and a skintight brown outfit patterned like the grain of wood.

  “Nuh-uh. They clearly scrubbed all of yours out.”

  Scritz dropped his knife arm down to his side. “Really? That’s the best you can do? How is it possible that those intelligent, talented operatives lost to you?”

  Cat had put his index finger over his mouth. Like I really needed to be told not to tell the guy with a knife to turn around. Scritz was standing with his side pointed toward the closet, so I had to get him to turn around.

  “OK. Then the cameras are in one of the corners. They can get pretty small these days.”

  We turned toward each corner of the room as one. With the bright lighting from the numerous lamps placed around the room, it was pretty easy to see, especially with how barren the room was; it contained only a bed and a desk.

  I didn’t have to see the camera to know this was a TV show. I had seen—OK, almost seen out of the corner of my eye—several cameras during my journey. They couldn’t all have been my imagination. Sure, I hadn’t actually touched them, but I’d never touched the moon, either, and it was plenty real (though I’m still crushed that it’s not made out of cheese). I mean, this place was too ridiculous to be real. No one could possibly follow a religion whose savior had been spanked to death. I cleverly looked at the corner farthest away from the closet last.

  “Fine, then. You have one of those tiny spy cameras on you.”

  “I don’t know what a camera is, exactly, but where would I hide it in this robe?”

  Cat tackled him from behind. “In the closet! That’s where he’s hidden.”

  I patted Cat on the back. “Great job, Cat. I think you could have delivered a better line, but overall, great job.”

  Cat picked Scritz up off the floor and shook him. “Why don’t you give him the knife back, and I’ll try again? Maybe something about me hitting him in the back? Say, buddy, could you maybe scream in surprise when I tackle you this time?”

  Scritz bounced around like a rag doll but didn’t make a sound.

  “I think he’s out, Cat.”

  “I hate when they interrupt a much-needed do-over by losing consciousness. At least he wasn’t inconsiderate enough to die on me. I hate it even more when they do that.”

  Saying “interrupt” predictably summoned an interruption. There was a knock at the door. “Open up! We know you’re in there.”

  “No one here but a few little girls. Tee-hee,” Cat said automatically. His little girl voice was surprisingly convincing.

  “Well, did you see a fat guy?” the guard said through the door.

  “They went that way,” Cat said. I was beginning to think they were somehow projecting an actual little girl’s voice from somewhere.

  “Thanks. We’ll go get them now.”

  I heard the sound of boots marching quickly away and gave Cat a questioning look. As usual, he was oblivious.

  Fortunately, his voice returned to normal. “Say, why do you think this guy is still after you? His friends were after the package, but you don’t have it anymore.”

  “Nothing here makes sense. This whole plot is terribly written. I’m actually glad he’s out so I don’t have to listen to him.”

  Cat grabbed a glass of water from nearby and tossed it on Scritz. I should have known they’d make me listen to their cockamamie plot. Scritz predictably woke right up.

  I sighed. “Why do you want to kill me? And please make it fast—short sentences and bullet points only.”

  “You killed my brother and ruined my family business.”

  I hoped that would be enough, but Cat stared at me until I spoke.

  “Who is your brother, and what business?”

  Scritz cleared his throat, hopefully to deliver his last line. “He died due to injuries sustained in a slap fight with you, after which you celebrated by contaminating one of our prize muck shipments. When the tainted shipment got put in with the rest, it ruined the entire batch. Because of that, our creditors foreclosed on all of our holdings.”

  “OK. Thanks.” I looked at the door, hoping the guards would return so I could finish this show and go home.

  After a few minutes, Cat cleared his throat. “So, how about that weather?”

  Scritz somehow managed to shrug while still in Cat’s powerful grip. “Well, we can’t really see it from here, but it’s been surprisingly nice lately, though I hear there are some storms blowing in from the south.”

  “Speaking of blowing—”

  “Cat,” I said, “do not finish that sentence.”

  “Really?” Scritz said. “He’s got me curious. I’d like to hear the rest. It’s not like we have anything else to do.”

  “You don’t get a vote. You’re a prisoner. Besides, you don’t know him very well, and you have no idea what sort of filth is likely to come out of his mouth.”

  Cat held Marshal Scritz up in front of me like he was a ventriloquist’s dummy. Scritz said, “Fartius Maximus, or Cat, as he is now known, was born on Fernagust 23, 2470 to Weyma and Tamin in the village of North in the south of Garandia. His father was a soldier who was away most of his life, and his mother raised him. His mother taught him all about the importance of standing up for yourself, the value of physical fitness, and origami. His favorite color is down, his favorite direction is blue, and he loves politics.”

  Cat said, “It’s true. I love reading about who’s going to win the next election for king in our absolute monarchy. Will it be Berin, or will it be Berin?” He put his hands over Scritz’s eyes and whispered to me. “My money is on Joe from Accounting.”

  He took his hands off of Scritz’s eyes. “Sorry,” Cat said. “You can continue.”

  “Fartius is known for his juvenile, often offensive sense of humor, his equally offensive odor, and his skill in offense. In second grade, he got a B on his report card in—”

  I put my hands over Scritz’s eyes, and he stopped talking. “OK. I get it. You know him pretty well.”

  There was a bang on the door again. “Excuse me, little girl, but ‘that way’ doesn’t really help when we can’t see which way you’re pointing. Could you be more specific? The guy we’re chasing is very dangerous. He just killed the king.”

  “A king?” Cat said. “Which one?”

  “I’m not sure. Hey, guys, which king was it?”

  Cat whispered to Scritz, “For your sake, they’d better be talking about another king. I am a loyal Garandian, and I will not be a part of any king slaying—unless it was by accident or you happened to be naked. Hypothetically.”
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  There was another knock at the door. “I’ve consulted with my colleagues, and they say it was King Berin.”

  “I heard he went up on deck,” I said in my best little girl voice. It wasn’t nearly as impressive as Cat’s, but it still fooled them.

  “Thanks again,” the guard said through the door.

  “Wait,” another guard said. “There are no children on board. This is a warship.”

  “We know you’re in there, prophet. Please, open the door.”

  As I looked around fruitlessly for somewhere to hide, Cat opened the door to the hall. The closet! Why hadn’t I thought of the closet?

  The guard standing at the door gave me an impassive stare. “I think you know why we’re here, prophet.”

  “Why did you open the door, Cat?”

  Cat shrugged. “They said ‘please.’ I can’t resist politeness.”

  The three guardsmen marched into the room in line and stopped in front of us. When they turned, their mouths dropped open in horror.

  “Marshal Scritz!” the one in the middle said. “What have you done to him?”

  I looked behind me to find that Marshal Scritz was sprawled on the floor with a knife in his heart. I wasn’t sure how they’d managed to get so much blood on him without making any noise.

  “What?” Cat said. “You said he killed the king, and I figured it was my patriotic duty to return the favor.”

  “The prophet killed the king, you idiot,” the guard said. “Seize them!”

  His two fellow guards grabbed us and tied us up at the wrists. Surprisingly, Cat didn’t struggle. I didn’t either, because I figured it was pointless and that it was the best way to get this thing over with. I already had my execution speech planned out. Hint: it would involve a lot of cursing and male nudity. Another hint: you’re going to want to fast-forward past that part if you watch it on TV.

  “Wait,” Cat said. “Which prophet?”

  “Cat, there’s only one other person in here,” I said.

  Cat wrinkled his eyebrows. “Well, clearly I’m the idiot he’s referring to, so it’s not me. That would mean—it was Scritz! When did he get named as a prophet? I thought Harry was the only one.”