Scene one. A lavish ocean-side mansion at an idyllic retreat. On a nearby golf course, a fat man with a fake tan and ridiculous hair slices another shot into a sand bunker.
“Perfect shot!” beams King Windbottom, who is now several shots over par and losing badly.
“This is my best ever performance,” he declares. “I may even break the course record today.”
With the threat from the north escalating and his administration in crisis, King Windbottom wrestles with difficult decisions on a daily basis.
“Hmm, a nine iron or a seven? I’m sure I can make the green from here.”
His opponent and the caddies look sceptical.
“Oh look, a fire-dragon!” says Windbottom.
The others dutifully look away, as he kicks his ball out of the bunker. They exchange glances but pretend to not notice.
A messenger brings the latest news regarding the ‘mad king of the north’, king Wrong-un.
“He claims to have fire-dragons, sire. With long range capabilities. He says he will attack our forward outpost and sink all our boats.”
King Windbottom suddenly begins to sob uncontrollably. The others stare at their shoes. An assistant quickly steps forward, with pictures of kittens and inspirational affirmations:
YOU ARE THE GREATEST LIVING PERSON!
ALL PEOPLE LOVE AND ADMIRE YOU!
EVERY WOMAN WANTS TO BE WITH YOU!
King Windbottom wipes away the tears. He smiles weakly. “Yes, I am truly amazing,” he says, convincing no one.
As they walk to the next hole, dark clouds gather. Thunder rumbles nearby.
“Winter is coming” mutters his caddy.
“Fake weather,” says King Windbottom.
A bolt of lightning strikes a nearby tree, destroying it. “That was lucky!”, says Windbottom. “I could have been killed.”
His slightly dazed opponent, the caddies and his PA begin to weep quietly.
“I need to get another message bird sent through Tweeter,” Windbottom tells his PA.
“Of course sire.”
“I am invincible and control the lightning. I cannot be killed and am the greatest leader in history. All other news is fake, jnxsbwxum xvmyp covfefe”
The PA looks baffled, assuming he is either having a stroke or has completely lost it. She sends the bird and message off anyway.
“How’s my approval rating?” Asks Windbottom
“Not looking so good, sire. Around twenty percent and falling,” his PA answers gravely.
“More fake news! You’re fired!” Screeches Windbottom. “Find me a new PA!”
Windbottom lines up his club and takes a hefty swing at the ball on the tee. He misses it completely, but gazing into the distance with his hand shading his eyes, shouts “Fore!”
Overhead, dark storm-clouds gather and it begins to rain.
Scene two: The White Castle. Windbottom’s senior advisors meet in secret to contemplate their best course of action.
“The people are becoming restless,” says chief of staff Rince Prepuce. “And our support is crumbling. His response? Another fucking golf holiday. But if I object he’ll simply have me replaced.”
The assembled group nod and murmur, knowing the petty tyrant will brook no criticism.
“Could we have him committed?”
“Flayed alive, disembowelled and eaten by dogs?”
“If only,” says Prepuce, standing by the tall window, gazing out into the evening gloom. “With King Loony-Tunes from the north threatening attack, we need a strong and wise leader. Hell, my idiot second cousin who was kicked in the head by a mule could do a better job. Windbottom has to go.”
“Aye” agree the group.
“But of course he will use the threat of war to boost his flagging public image and fill his coffers with more gold . We need diplomacy, not his infantile macho bullshit. We must act now.”
At that moment the chamber door bursts open and the King’s guard enters.
“What is the meaning of this?” Demands Prepuce.
Without a word, the leader of the guard hands him a scroll of paper. On it, in a barely legible childish scrawl are the words
‘Your all fired. Signed, King Windbottom’
“It’s ‘You’re fired’ you halfwit,” mutters Prepuce, shaking his head as they are lead out. “And we are all fucked now.”
Scene three: the palace of King Wrong-un. The glittering, opulent interior is decked out with flags, portraits and numerous flattering sculptures of the king. There is also also a soft-play area with a little slide and lots of toys and Lego bricks.
A top general knocks and shuffles in nervously, his several dozen gold medals clanking. “Glorious leader, our fire-dragons are almost ready.”
King Wrong-un stares at his reflection in a huge ornate mirror on the wall, checking his hair. He glances lovingly at the vast self-portrait behind his desk, then looks at the general, who is straining to stand upright under the weight of the medals.
“About fucking time” says King Wrong-un, testily. “How is my popularity rating with the people today?”
“Er it’s 100% approval your gloriousness, as always.”
Wrong-un frowns. “Can’t you find a way to boost it a bit?”
“Er, I will look into it, your fabulousness.”
“What news of that imbecile so-called-King, Windbottom?”
“Our spies say he is playing golf again, your most graciousness.”
“That man is bereft of reason. Now bring me my lunch and send for the royal artist. I want a new sculpture made of me, crushing all my enemies. And I want it to be made out of solid gold with diamonds, and visible from space.”
“Yes, right away, your…”
“And bring me more spicy noodles!”, says Wrong-un angrily. “I’m fuckin’ starving here!”
The general staggers to the door.
“Idiots” says the king. And he resumes playing with a Lego robot-dragon on his desk. “Pee-ow, pee-ow, wooosh!, die muthafuckers! Die! Ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha!”
The general closes the door and walks away, weeping softly. “We’re all fucked now” he mutters to himself. And taking off his heavy jacket and folding it neatly, he mops the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. Then he jumps out of the window.
To be continued… possibly.
© Copyright Jason Lennick 2017
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely deliberate.
Pic: via Buzzfeed / © Huw Parkinson and the Australian Broadcasting Corporation