FWC: The Incompetent King (RESULTS)

Started by Baron, Mon 22/12/2014 01:49:48

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Baron

We're too close to Christmas for a schmaltzy theme: by the time we reach the January deadline it will read like egg-nog that's gone off.  So here's something light-hearted to have fun with, or something profound to explore: it's flexible.  It's pliable.  It's...

THE INCOMPETENT KING


Leaders come in all shapes and sizes, but sometimes people are promoted too far beyond their abilities.  Your "king" could be a CEO, or a president, or a boss, or a headmaster.  She could be an empress, or a arch-sorceress, or a matriarch, or a drill-sergeant.  As long as your story revolves around someone quite ill-suited to their leadership-role then it passes muster with me.  Likewise, the tone of your story could be comedic, or philosophical, or tragic.  History affords us many precedents of ineptitude mixed with power.  Your "king" could be artistically insane like Rome's Nero, or well-meaning but feeble like England's Henry VI.  She could be hopelessly out of touch like France's Marie Antoinette, or a buffoon like America's George Bush II.  What would have happened if Michael Corleone had gotten whacked early on and the mob was inherited by Fredo?  What would happen if Hitler had poured his paranoia and managerial ambitions into an ice-cream reich?  So, pick your nincompoop from history or create him from scratch, and then weave the bestest story ever around his reign of bungling!

All lengths and styles of story are acceptable, from anecdotes to annals, and biographies to ballads.  Have fun!  Entertain us!  Write!

Deadline is no sooner than January 5, 2015

Voting criteria will include:

Best Non-King Character: most believable or captivating or magnetic or unique: could be main character or supporting role
Best King: The King that displays the least aptitude for dealing with their responsibilities (or at least best-king character)
Best Atmosphere: Which story evoked the strongest feelings due to excitement/humour/intrigue/wonder/emotional intensity?
Best Ending: Replacing "best plot" this time around, but mostly dependent on it: which story was constructed so well as to have the best punch at the end?
Best Background World: The best setting or milieu for a story: a place brought to life.
Best Writing Style: The technical art of combining words in clever or gripping ways.
Most Substantive: Which story provides the greatest insight into the foibles of power?  Can be philosophical or humorous.

I look forward to reading your story!  Good luck! :)

monkey424

Ha! This will be an easy one. I'll just write about my dickhead boss.  (nod)
    

Baron

Quote from: monkey424 on Mon 22/12/2014 04:33:57
Ha! This will be an easy one. I'll just write about my dickhead boss.  (nod)

Photo-comics are also an acceptable format.  ;-D

Mandle


Baron

In the kingdom of the nose-less, the man with one nostril must suffer. (nod) ~Sun Tzu


Mandle

Quote from: Baron on Sat 27/12/2014 02:19:39
In the kingdom of the nose-less, the man with one nostril must suffer. (nod) ~Sun Tzu

ROFL!!!! Might make a great game right there: The man born with one nostril must embark on a quest to find the Shrine of the Holy Rhinoplasty to plug it and end his suffering of the body odour of the entire rest of the world.

Could be great!

Stupot


Mandle

Quote from: Stupot+ on Sat 27/12/2014 13:45:42
At least he knows he smells better than anyone else :-D

Yeah, but if he tells anyone about that they would just look at him like he was crazy. It would be like if I walked up to someone and said: "My aura is much fluffier than yours."

The poor guy has some weird kind of "Fifth Sense" that nobody would believe in... Hehe: and there's the game name right there: "The Fifth Sense" (laugh)

Okay, I've stopped hijacking the thread now ;)

Baron

Maybe the one nostril dude is KING of the nose-less. :shocked:  Maybe you should write about his story! ;-D

Mandle

Quote from: Baron on Mon 29/12/2014 02:55:16
Maybe the one nostril dude is KING of the nose-less. :shocked:  Maybe you should write about his story! ;-D

I actually did think about doing just that, but I realised I have way too many other deadlines to meet. Maybe if I can meet all of those first there's a chance...

Baron

Our deadlines can be flexible for enthusiastic young scribes such as yourself. :)

And...

Quote from: Baron on Mon 22/12/2014 01:49:48
All lengths and styles of story are acceptable, from anecdotes to annals, and biographies to ballads.  Have fun!  Entertain us!  Write!

I trust some sort of Haiku isn't beyond your capabilities over the next eight days -that's less than two words per day.  You do one at breakfast and one and bedtime and BOOM!  It's done before you know it. ;-D

kconan

  This comp got me looking over the list of past and present micronations.  Sealand might lead the pack for most obscure: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Principality_of_Sealand

EDIT: I'm working on a bumbling medieval King story...So I'll have an entry in a day or two.

DOUBLE EDIT: Its taking a while because though I love medieval terms, I find the "thou arts" and "thines" to be a bit repetitive so I'm changing the dialogue.

Baron


kconan

Buffoon of Baboso

“Heavy is the crown of Baboso…” lamented King Babo of Baboso.  His Minister of Propaganda Sir Alfred Lassard (more simply known as Sir Fred), replied, “Well sire, you are wearing your lead crown.”  King Babo appeared to have a moment of revelation, and then removed his royal raiments which included an impossibly large lead ornamental headdress, a jewel encrusted velour robe, and a large golden self-awarded Official Medal of Humility that had dangled at the end of a necklace.  The good (or bad as many would allege) King Babo was of average height with a pear-shaped build and perhaps most notably, a bulbous drinker's nose.

King Babo commanded, “Sir Fred, have my royal cabinet summoned!”  Fred replied, “Sire, do you mean the jesters?”  The giddy King nodded and the royal kazooers announced the royal jester brigade who happily pranced into the room and began dancing around to the rhythm of the court bard's tune.  One overweight court jester dared to be hungover and was half-heartedly swaying while cradling a jug of firewater mead, which caused King Babo to point at him and announce, “He displeases the King!  Sir Fred, send this oaf to the lions!”  The Propaganda Minister seized the lax offender and frog marched him into the lions den, and then dramatically slammed the door.  The discombobulated Jester roused from his stupor and stared at an equally confused pride of sea lions.

With a dismissive wave from their ruler, the Jesters sashayed out of the throne room while Sir Fred brought in the first of the civil disputes.  On King Babo's left stood a stunning, voluptuous young woman.  On his right was a greasy old elixir merchant who stood with folded arms while angrily tapping a foot.  The King picked up his Scepter of Wisdom with his right hand, while the left was curled into a fist under his chin as if in deep contemplation.  King Babo ordered, “I will now hear your grievances!”  The gorgeous woman leaned closed to the King and said, “Sire, I am but a mere naïve damsel simply trying to find my way in this harsh World-” and was cut-off by the annoyed merchant who curtly interrupted with, “Horsefeathers!  This woman is singing a siren's song-“ and himself was cut-off by King Babo's booming voice which declared, “HOW DARE YOU interrupt this fair maiden's tale of woe?!  I've sent better men to the stocks, to the racks, or even to the spiky, expandable pear of anal anguish!”  Everyone present noticeably cringed, and the King went on, “I've made my decision.  The fair lass here will enjoy priority access to the Baboso Castle Club facilities, and the curmudgeonly merchant will face twenty lashings!”  The beautiful woman sauntered off to the royal pool, and the old merchant slumped his shoulders at the verdict as the royal roaster entered the throne room to dish out the tongue lashings.  “This old fart is so greasy that his liver spots slipped off!” lashed the royal roaster.

After a verbal onslaught of nineteen more tongue lashes, the merchant was finally escorted out by Sir Fred.  King Babo twirled his Scepter of Wisdom and proclaimed, “The King tires of squashing squabbles!”  He leapt up from his small white throne and strolled through the front gates to the castle lawn.  The Royal Harem had returned from picking prunes and passed by King Babo, who grinned and waved.  The King's subjects would often joke that ole' King Babo “casted a wide net” with his preference for the rubenesque ladies.  The Master Harem Harlot, Mable Babo, waved back.  While the echoes of her arm flab flapping together dissipated, King Babo solemnly watched the harem - prune baskets in hand - skip back into the castle across the old wood drawbridge that loudly creaked in protest. 

The King stared into his moat, and pondered what the royal genealogist had said about the purity of his bloodline being “Hapsburg-like”.  The King reminded himself to check with his sister-cousin in the royal library to find out the meaning of that word.  King Babo's chief concern, however, was the growing unrest amongst many of the noble houses, monastic orders, peasant clans, less fortunate citizens from the almshouses, and even the barbarian hordes from the outlands that have all banded together in an unlikely alliance to dethrone the King and end his glorious reign.  He had never seen so many people of different social classes and backgrounds come together for one common cause, and this thought brought forth a small tear which trickled down his jowly cheeks and fell into the moat.  While the unrest was troubling, he smiled at the idea that only a great King could bring so many together. 

The King composed himself and reminisced his major accomplishments for the Baboso people…There was the time that an evil and immensely powerful knight armed with a huge claymore sword had strode into his kingdom and began chopping the heads off of any unlucky citizens he chanced upon, and so naturally the brave King Babo pledged to his people that he, “would not rest until the evil knight tires of head chopping and then returns to his lands.”  Also, there was the great famine, which wise King Babo solved by allowing the populace to share from his royal prune stores (This lead to major sewer canal blockages, but that is another story and solution).  And lest the chroniclers could forget, the inventive King and his royal architects designed the first air transport system which propels travelers via giant ballista to their destination.  Once the kinks are ironed out, mainly the landing, this will no doubt catch on in Baboso and the citizens who have been randomly selected as test pilots will go down in history as pioneers of aviation.

King Babo eagerly watched as the moat began bubbling and frothing, and he began clapping his hands together gleefully as something began rising from the murky depths.  He was distracted by Sir Fred from within the castle who hailed him with, “Your Highness, there are matters which require your attention!” and the King half-jogged back to his throne room.  “Aye, what is it?” the King asked as he sat down on the throne, which was actually a medieval toilet since the King never tired of laughing at the double-meaning.  Sir Fred motioned towards a tall, elegantly attired gentleman who stood before the King and explained, “He is from House Viceroy, and wishes an audience with the almighty, all-knowing, and merciful King.”  King Babo leaned over to Sir Fred and pointed to himself, and Sir Fred quickly nodded and whispered, “yes, you.”

The King straightened up in his throne and turned towards the visitor and said, “I assume you are here to pledge your fealty or perhaps give tribute.”  The stranger said, “I've come to discuss the current state of vassalage with the goatish felon of a king.”  To which the King replied, “Um…Yes…Vassalage, of course…And in this case that would be…”  The stranger sighed and said, “You do not represent the people of Baboso.  Nor do you care about them and even if you did, you are not able to reign.  I, Lord Viceroy of House Viceroy, do represent their combined interests and hereby publicly challenge how your forebears came to power and thusly, your very birthright!  You will battle me in a contest of champions in the main tiltyard, and as my sole royal courtesy I will allow you to choose the weapon.  Should you be the victor, then the rebellion will come to an end and your rule shall continue on like the Black Plague.  But make no mistake you bootless dullard, I intend to send you to God's Acre and claim the title of King so that someone fit rules in your stead!”  Sir Fred shook his head slowly as he knew that this man hailed from a family of Teutonic Knights, and was both in top physical condition and skilled in all forms of combat as a professional soldier.  Lord Viceroy was also the type to not make idle threats.  He figured that calling the guards would be of no use, as they were very likely in cahoots with the rebellion.

King Babo boomed, “Wait!  This is all very confusing…Your title is Lord or Viceroy.  What say you?”  Lord Viceroy responded, “My title is Lord, and I am of House Viceroy you craven churl.”  King Babo seethed with rage in response, “Such INSOLENCE!  I should have you drawn and quartered!”  The King's challenger responded, “The King's capacity to be oblivious is certainly not limited to matters of state.  Nearly everyone on your court is part of this rebellion.” King Babo glanced around his throne room and saw the members of his royal court sheepishly shrug while avoiding eye contact with him.


On the morrow in the King's chambers…Sir Fred addressed his King with, “Sire, the royal court only agreed to join the rebels if you weren't killed outright.  Speaking boldly…This condition may have saved your hide.  And you should further note that many remain indifferent.  Meaning they wouldn't run your Highness through with a polearm, nor would they take a polearm thrust for you.”  The King wearily scratched his large, veiny nose and became teary eyed.  He glanced at the royal squire who was folding clothes near the royal bedchamber and said, “You!  Mayhap you have a shred of loyalty to your King?”  The squire brazenly replied, “In place of barking orders, perchance my King could say “prithee” once and a while.”  Sir Fred grinned for the first time in many moons, and advised, “Sire, get some bellytimber in you and then we'll pick out your arms so we can start training.”

The man-at-arms, royal trainer, and royal falconer were all assembled in the tiltyard with King Babo.  For fifty-five years the old man-at-arms had served the Kingdom, and had earned the respect of all who had passed by his weapons racks and passed through his training halls.  He explained that one shouldn't “Cross swords with a swordsman or joust with a jouster” and ran down the list of weapons for King Babo, explaining the advantages/disadvantages of each individually and when wielded by a formidable opponent such as Lord Viceroy who was skilled in all manner of battle.  The royal trainer and his team were present to help with training the King on whichever primary weapon was eventually chosen.  The royal falconer was there because King Babo thought falcons were pretty.

The King was decked out in the overly fancy royal chain coif armor (that seemed to be fitting tighter these days) as he examined his weapon options.  In his relatively strong youth the then Prince did have basic fencing training and was given semi-regular marksman lessons with an arbalest crossbow, but alas those days were long behind the King.  For the two secondary weapons he decided to pocket a particularly nasty caltrop and put a sword-breaker dagger on his hip, and as the main selection (which Lord Viceroy will be forced to wield as well) an extremely rare, exotic weapon from the East was chosen that was called “chain-sticks” which he would use in tandem with a small hard wood buckler shield.  Lord Viceroy was an expert with swords, axes, halberds, maces, flails, morning stars, maces, lances, spears, clubs, staffs, all projectile weapons, and basically everything used to “stab or bash” that was common in their lands.  The Lord was additionally adept at bare-handed combat.  As far as the King knew, Lord Viceroy was unaware of the unconventional chain-sticks weapon and was not a fan of shields as he viewed them cowardly.  The royal trainer and his team treated the chain-sticks as a morning star variation for training purposes and went to work…


On the fortnight in the main tiltyard…The crowd of hundreds of Baboso citizens from all walks of life chatted, argued, and placed bets as they watched King Babo and Lord Viceroy make their way up to the trial master.  He inspected their weapons and raised his ceremonial short-sword in the air to signal for quiet.  The trial master announced, “The rules are simple:  Neither poisoned edges, nor any outside interference will be tolerated.”  King Babo glanced down at Lord Viceroy's hip and saw a lone trident dagger as his secondary weapon.  His opponent was wearing bronze scale armor that proudly displayed the Viceroy coat of arms, and of course was he also armed with chain-sticks and a wooden buckler.  Sir Fred caught his attention briefly as he hollered, “Godspeed Sire!” which drew dirty looks from many of the assembled onlookers.

The opponents squared up in the middle of the tiltyard, and Lord Viceroy taunted with, “I like your hufty-tufty armor and will claim this as my battle prize for facing the unready and unworthy King of Baboso.”  The King was shaking, but held his ground as the two stared each other down with a quarter furrow-long between them.  The leader of the Viceroy House dropped his buckler and began twirling his chain-sticks, and then he flipped one stick behind his back and grabbed it under his arm and then pulled it around and swung it over his other shoulder and repeated this maneuver as if it had been practiced.  Lord Viceroy smiled and said, “I'm well versed in Eastern warfare, and that includes nunchaku.”  King Babo's shoulders sagged as the crowd exploded in response, and wondered if his sword-breaker dagger could be used to snag and break chain-sticks.

The King tensed, and waited for the Lord's first move.  He heard a whooshing sound and raised his buckler, which recoiled sharply from a solid blow.  As Lord Viceroy confidently strode over to his opponent, the King looked at the front of his buckler and saw a plumbata dart stuck in the center.  King Babo guessed that this had been the hidden secondary weapon, and he backed up as the Lord advanced.  Jeers and boos rained down from the crowd as the King put distance between himself and the challenger.  One particularly angry and overly prepared dwarf began launching rotten tomatoes at the King via a small wheeled catapult as he neared the tiltyard boundary; while dodging King Babo recalled once having relations with the portly little man's wife and sister.  The trial master stopped the dwarf just as King Babo reached the back boundary of the tiltyard, though the verbal jeers rained down unabated.

Lord Viceroy charged with his chain-sticks spinning, and King Babo blocked what would have been a staggering blow with his buckler and got lucky in choosing which way to dodge a follow-up attack, and then the unpopular King proceeded to run the opposite direction away from the fight.  Lord Viceroy's normally proper and elegant wife, the fair Lady Elizabeth of House Viceroy, screamed profane obscenities at the King that would even make a dungeon torturer blush.

Now rotten fruit and vegetables were raining down from all sides as he escaped to the other end of the tiltyard, and the trial master was powerless to do anything due to the sheer numbers that were hurling rotten food.  Even some half-starved wildlings from the outer reaches of the Kingdom had made the trip, and preferred to hurl food at the King rather than use it to satiate their hungry stomachs.  A huge gourd caromed off the King's leather helmet that caused him to tumble to the ground.  He turned to face the oncoming Lord Viceroy, staggered a bit, and then slipped backwards on a rotten orange to ultimately land on his royal posterior.

The Lord had nearly caught up to his opponent when he yelped in pain and collapsed.  King Babo stood up, ran over to the crumpled form, and abruptly halted just outside of a sword swings distance.  Lord Viceroy had lost his chain-sticks and was holding up a trident dagger directed at the King with one hand, while the other checked his leather boot which now had a bloody caltrop sticking out of the sole.  The King realized that it must have fallen out at some point during his “tactical retreat”, and he watched as the rebellion's champion removed the business end of the mantrap from his boot.  The Lord announced, “Your brave King fights with dishonor and subterfuge!”  The already irate crowd became furious, but the trial master's guards were now finally preventing them from throwing food and some even had to be prevented from filling slings with rocks.

King Babo circled his hobbled opponent, occasionally darting in to wildly swing the chain-sticks which Lord Viceroy artfully dodged.  During the fourth attempt, the Lord dealt such a crushing dagger strike to King Babo's buckler that it split down the middle.  The King snatched up the plumbata dart which had fallen to the ground, and threw it at the Lord who expertly knocked the iron missle aside with his trident dagger.  Both opponents now faced each other with daggers pointed, though the challenger was limping around on one leg while his opponent was crippled by years of hard drinking and lack of exercise.

Sir Fred, tired of witnessing such an embarrassing debacle, grabbed an elderly spectator's inordinately large ear horn and ran to the trial master's platform.  The fatigued trial master saw Sir Fred leap up on his platform and decided right then that his days of officiating matches are behind him - regardless of who is crowned King.  Sir Fred boomed, “Good citizens and friends from afar!  I propose a deal.  You will allow the King to live out his days banished to another far-away kingdom.  In return, I give both you and the new King my honorable word that the exact whereabouts of the royal gold stores will be disclosed; of which the King only knows the exact location.”  Lord Viceroy and the King exchanged glances, and the Lord said, “Agree to further conditions and I will grant this deal…You must wear a foul smelling badge of shame while riding atop a large mule as you journey to your new home.  And you must also allow that amusing dwarf with the mobile catapult to pelt you with rotten tomatoes during your trip.”


On the morrow atop the largest jackass in the Baboso Kingdom…Sir Fred listened as the former King griped about his ungrateful harem unanimously deciding not to join them on their quest for a new home.  The ex-King droned on as he occasionally adjusted the large medal dangling from his neck.  This not-so-prestigious one was recently awarded, and made of dried ox manure.  Sir Fred quietly thanked the Gods that they managed to get away from both the new royal family and the hordes of angry Baboso citizens with their lives.  He was mulling over their relative good fortune, just as he could hear a familiar rustling in the bushes near a bend in the horsepath.  Sir Fred grabbed his trusty tower shield and covered his friend Mr. Babo just as they were once again relentlessly bombarded with rotten tomatoes.

Baron

I'm only slightly disappointed that you didn't choose to write about the sovereign sea platform (although you'd have a hard time writing fiction weirder than that.... ;)).  However, I'm the opposite of disappointed (appointed? :P) that we finally have an entry! ;-D  Just one more week left: now's the time to write truth about power and give kconan some competition.

WHAM

I sort of wanted to subvert the idea of an incompetent leader, and rather went for a perceived incompetent leader and some alternate history. See for yourselves. ;)

------------------

The Führer

“Herr Führer, what do we do? The communists are inside the city and the men are faltering! The reports from the west are no better and people are...”

There is a long pause as tension fills the air as the man searches for the right words. The fans that circulate air in the bunker are clearly audible as a distant hum.

“Herr Führer, the people are afraid!” -he finally manages.

The black-clad officer is pale in the face and sweating profusely. The others: Goebbels, Heinz and the handful of officers and secretaries are equally frightened-looking, as if they were all worn out and hadn't slept in days. Most of them probably hadn't.

How tired they all look, Adolf thinks to himself, and how tired he himself must look after all these years. Then he blinks once, twice, and straightens his back for one last time.

“You have your orders, all of you.” -he barks, spittle flying in the air as he speaks. His trembling hand whisks away a runaway strand of hair from his forehead as he continues to spout: “Berlin must not fall, and I have full confidence in the stalwart men standing against the communists. We have nothing, I repeat, nothing to fear from Stalin's dogs!”

The words take a few moments to sink in. Adolf can see, out of the corner of his eye, Goebbels rolling his eyes in poorly hidden disgust. Adolf brushes his tan uniform of accumulated dust and raises his hand in a salute, which no-one returns.

“Now I must bid you all farewell, as Eva and I will now retreat for the night. Goodnight.”

The others gasp in abject horror and look on, wide-eyed and afraid, as Adolf and Eva turn and leave, closing the bulky metal door behind them as they enter the Führer's bunker proper.

“Do you think they bought it?” -Eva asks as soon as the door closes with a metallic clang.

“Of course they did. Not one of them would question their Führer at this stage, the time for such folly is long gone.” -Adolf replies, punctuating the sentence with a long, weary sigh, as he walks through the door of the darkened conference room and pauses. He remembers the Wolfsschanze -incident all too well. A chill runs down his spine. Eva places her hand reassuringly over Adolf's shoulder.

“Come now, dear, there is still one more thing to do.”

She turns to the left and opens the door to Adolf's office. The hinges operate soundlessly and as the door opens, a bright red light momentarily blinds them both. As his eyes adjust, Adolf can see the ornate glass case sitting on his desk, the carved bas relief depicting some strange betentacled creature crouching or sitting behind the thick glass, emitting the ominous red illumination that seems to envelop the world around it, distorting the air and making his head swim.

Eva steps through the office door and delicately places her hand over the glass.

“Is it hot?” -Adolf asks.

“Ice cold...” -she replies, her voice quivering slightly.

Adolf steps into the office as well, closing the door behind him.

“The smell of it. Even through the glass it smells of the sea.” -Eva says reverently.

“We shouldn't waste time. Too many have suffered over this already. We owe it to the Japanese to finish this here and now.”

Eva nods at that, moving her hand to the small handle embedded in the glass. Adolf moves to the desk as well, placing his hand over the identical handle on the opposite side. The two pause for a second, looking through the glass at the figurine, then slowly raising their eyes to look at one another.

“I love you, Eva.”

“I love you too, Adolf.”

Without another word the two of them lift the glass case, and almost instantly the ethereal red hue that had coloured the room envelopes them both. The glass case disappears from sight, as does the entire office and the bunker around them. Clouds and smoke swirl in the sky around them as their spirits fly up and away, circling the carved relief between them.

Adolf glances down and can see the entirety of Berlin spread below him, like a map. To the east the city is enveloped in flames, explosions tearing down entire city blocks as the soviets advance. Eva cries out, a wordless wail of disgust. In seconds, Adolf too, can sense it: a foul stench is being emitted by the relief, reminding him of all the worst things he has experienced, as if all of his fears and nightmares were embedded in that loathsome stench.

With determination and willpower, Eva and Adolf push on, approaching the relief, which now seems to float several kilometers in the air above the city, rotating slowly. The carved bas tentacles seem to slowly twitch and turn, as if the carved idol was slowly coming to life.

Adolf and Eva moved closer, locking their fingers together, forming a two-person circle around the relief. The two of them shivered with the cold, recoiled from the stench and cried out in pain as the red-hue of the relief assaulted their eyes and skin, but they held on, hand in hand. To let go now, would doom not only Berlin, but all of Europe, perhaps even all of the world.

Faint forms of men and women floated past them, ghosts of those killed on the battlefields below. Adolf looks at one such form as it floats past Eva's shoulder and sees sorrow and fear in the dead man's eyes. Tears well in his eyes as he thinks of all the people who have died at his orders.

“Be strong, Adolf! Be strong now!” -Eva shouts, her face distorted by the pain and the effort, but her voice is only a whisper, barely audible over the unnatural silence emitted by the relief. Adolf nods, the effort sending jolts of pain through the muscles of his neck and his spine, then closes his eyes, focusing his will. He can feel the spirits of the dead, a dome of them high above, kept in this world by the will of the order and the magicks of the Schwarze Sonne, the scattered hordes of the dead slowly rising from below. They are warm, gentle spirits, and it is that warmth that keeps Adolf and Eva alive through this trial of wills. It is their unknowing sacrifice that permits the two of them to live and fight on.

“Now! We must do it now!” -Eva screams.

Adolf tightens his grip on Eva's hands and begins to roar, not intentionally, but as an uncontrollable side-effect of the exertion his mind is now going through. Through his mind's eye he can see the dome of spirits above suddenly caving in, the hollow forms of dead men and women swirling down and towards the relief. At first the red glow of the carved idol repels the torrent of spirits, rending the souls of the fallen into pale shreds and mist, but as more and more slam against the bubble of force around it, the light begins to change shade, turning first purple and then a shade of pale blue, before collapsing entirely.

“It's working! It's breaking!” -Adolf exclaims after gasping in a breath of icy air. Eva does not respond.

“Eva?” -he calls out.

Only silence is her reply.

Fighting against the cold and the pain, Adolf forces himself to open his eyes, to truly see the maelstrom of souls washing over the bas relief, which is now spinning wildly, chips of the carved idol flying off and disappearing is puffs of black smoke. Eva is still there, her cold fingers tightly gripping his, but her eyes have rolled into the back of her head and her face is distorted and frozen in a scream of agony.

Seconds feel like hours, but finally the bas relief breaks completely. In an instant Adolf finds himself tumbling down, through the air, through the perceived kilometers and kilometers of emptiness and clouds. Just as he is about to impact with the ground, his hands slip.

With a thud the two of them fall to the floor, again in the darkness of the small office. The glass case lies shattered on the floor and there is no sign of the carved bas relief within. The room feels cold and a strange smell lingers in the air, a foul and hated smell, like that of bitter almonds.

“Eva?” -Adolf calls out, his voice hoarse. She does not reply.

Adolf lifts himself up from the floor, and reaches out to his desk lamp, yanking on the switch. The light feels blinding and hurts his eyes, but it allows him to see properly.

Eva is not in the room. Instead, the door leading to the sitting room beyond the office lies ajar.

“Eva?”

Her name seems to hang in the thick air. With great difficulty, Adolf takes a step, then another and another, finally reaching the doorway. Tears stream down his face as he sees Eva sitting on the sofa, slumped to the side, her hair messy and windblown, her face pale and cold, her eyes unseeing and dead.

Adolf steps closer, leaning in to kiss her gently on the cheek, then running his fingers over her eyelids to close them. He draws his sidearm, a reliable Walther PPK and clicks the safety off. He sits down next to the woman he loved and only recently married, and wordlessly places the weapon at his own temple.

---

As the sun rises over the columns of thick black smoke in the east, Joseph Goebbels sits at his desk, writing. He pauses, searching for the right words to put down on the paper, when a man bursts into the room.

“The Führer! He's dead! The Reich is lost!” -the man speaks the words hurriedly and clumsily, through gasps and gulps, while hanging to the doorframe.

Goebbels grimaces and places the pen he had been writing with on the desk, then steeples his trembling fingers, forcing himself calm. What a waste, he thinks to himself as the man in the doorway stares at him, dumbfounded. What an utter waste all these years had been, and he had had such high hopes for the Führer. In the end it was all in vain, and all because the man he had trusted, the man the German people had trusted, had been such a wasteful fool...

Wrongthinker and anticitizen one. Pending removal to memory hole. | WHAMGAMES proudly presents: The Night Falls, a community roleplaying game

Sinitrena

The Lord of the Castle

It was early in the morning when the soldier received the bad news. Agitatedly, he ran to the lord of the castle and announced:

Wait a second, what the hell is a lord of a castle?

What? I am telling this story! Oh well, you are the lord of this castle.

All right, but what is a lord of a castle?

The lord? Of a castle?

Eh?

Well, the boss! The boss of this big house with thick walls!

Oh, well, ok.

Well, as I was saying: The lord of the castle was busy dressing in the morning when the soldier busted into his chambers...

Chambers?

Yes, chambers. His chambers, his rooms, the place he lives.

Excuse me? Do you mind if I tell my news now?

Yes, sure. I'm on it.

So the soldier announced agitated and out of breath: “My lord, please excuse my disturbing you so early in the morning but a huge crowd has gathered in front of the gates. They are armed, armed with swords and axes. I'm not sure, but they might have siege machines!”

“Ok.”, the lord of the castle answered with a slightly confused look. “That's not good, is it?”
The soldier looked at him aghast.

What now? This guy brought a ghost along?

No, he looked at you aghast. That means he can't really believe what you just said.

Oh, well, ok.

May I continue with my story now?

Yes, yes.

Good. The soldier looked at his lord aghast and gasped appalled and slightly panicked because his lord made no move to do anything at all: “No! No, that is not good! We have to do something!”

“And what?”, the lord of the castle asked and then added after a moment while the soldier stared at him: “Oh, well, I do know. I own this glittery steel-thingy, don't I?

“Steel-thingy!? What steel-thingy?”

What the lord of the castle really meant was his suit of armor and after some confused looks of the soldier and some very inept attempts at an explanation from the lord, they actually managed to understand each other and the valuable armor was brought to the knight and a knave helped him put it on.

A knave? What's that? Has this something to do with a knife? Did I get cut in half?

Oh my god! Who made you a knight? A knave is a knight-in-training, your apprentice, so to speak.

Oh, well.

Now that this is settled and the lord even somehow managed to squeeze into his armor without nailing his head to his feet...

Hey!

After managing this, he actually felt much safer and prettier. The soldier though still stood with panic in his eyes next to him and seemed to wait for something.

“What is it? Don't I look good?”, the knight asked.

“My lord, what about the castle? Won't you give some orders for the defense? The enemies are at the gates!”

The lord of the castle turned to the window and looked out of it. As is happened, he really saw a huge crowd behind the walls of the castle and the moat.

“That's not good. That's really not good.”, he mumbled pensively. “I think I should better hide. But where?” He hesitated for a moment and than a flash of inspiration seemed to hit him: “I know! I go to the tower!”

I do have a tower, don't I?

Yes. Castles have towers. Generally speaking, there's a keep that was used...

Yeah, yeah, yeah, all right. I don't need details. Just show me the way.

There. So the narrator showed the lord the way to the keep and up the steps, even though the narrator doesn't actually belong to this story, and the knight ran upstairs. The narrator won't tolerate any mention of the fact that it is difficult to run with a full suit of armor at this moment and points out that this story only gets more absurd further along. And yes, that's possible.

When the lord reached the roof of the tower, he cowered in a corner against the merlons and huddled his sword, shaking. The soldier had followed him. Apparently, he still hoped all this would make sense further along the line and that his lord would begin to do his duty for some reason and defend the castle.

“What now?”, he asked the shaking lord.

“What, what now?”

“Well, won't you organize the defense?”

“What does organize mean?”

Narrator, help me, please!

Yes, yes, all right... Or-ga-nize: to arrange by systematic planning and united effort.

Systematic?

Sys-tem-at-ic: relating to or consisting of a system.

System?

Sys-tem: a regularly interacting or interdependent group of items forming a unified whole.

Unified?

Uni-fy: to make into a unit or a coherent... - Wait a second, what am I doing? Read it yourself! Desperate, the narrator threw the dictionary at the lord's feet and wondered at the same time, why the enemies hadn't overrun the castle yet. For very understandable reasons, he was miffed at the difference between discourse time and narrative time.

Luckily, at least the soldier hadn't lost his mind yet, even though he still accepted the authority of his lord.

Authority

I won't start this nonsense again!

So the soldier stood in front of his lord with his hands on his hips and said: “We need to close the gates! We need to raise the drawbridge! We need to distribute archers on the walls and heat the tar! We need to...”

“Why is that?”, the lord of the castle asked and thereby interrupted the desperate man.

“Why? Why?! To protect the castle! There are people living here, who count on you! We need to defend the castle and to beat off the enemy!”

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Why the hell not?”, the soldier hollered and threw his hands up in the air.

He threw his hands away?

No. He threw his hands up. I wanted to try some slightly flowery language. But that's probably a waste of effort here. How about you answer his question now and explain why you don't want to defend the castle and why you hole up in an unpractical armor on top of this tower?

Luckily, the lord of the castle listened to the narrator this once and explained: “Well, when we close the gates the attackers can't come in, throw down their weapons and go to the dungeons.”

“What? That doesn't make the least bit of sense!”

The soldier was right, of course, that didn't make sense, but because this whole story doesn't make sense, not at all, the enemies were just about to stand erect in an orderly line...

Hi, hi, erect, hi hi.

Don't start with that. I don't want any humor below the belt. This whole thing is bad enough! But, just for you and to go easy on my nerves: The attackers stood in a line and strolled over the drawbridge, through the open gates into the main court of the castle. There, they put down their weapons, one after the other, on the sandy ground, before they went into the dungeon just as orderly. The soldiers watched them confused and the attackers themselves weren't able to say what made them do this.

The narrator looked from the grinning lord of the castle to the hysterically laughing soldier and turned away, shaking his head, to go looking for the kitchen and some alcoholic beverage. He needed it. Who ever came up with this rubbish?

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My mother is a teacher for history, among other things. Her students, aged 15/16/17, are, generally speaking, not the brightest. One day she asked them how a medievil castle was defended (after teaching it to them). She would have been happy with an answer like "Castles had thick walls." but recieved more or less the reactions the lord has in my story. This is what I made of it later, after she told me of a really frustating lesson. So, this story is for her.

The word diffinitions used in this story  (organize, systematic, system and unify) are taken from the Merriam Webster Online Dictionary.

"Narrative time" and "discourse time" are expressions of Gérard Genette's narratology.

Myinah

The Supreme Leader of the People's Taco Bell Franchise


"I'm fired?!"

Mr Reinhardt never went looking for trouble and he hated this part of the job. He was a plain spoken man; unassuming. As the regional franchise manager it almost pained him to shut down fledgling stores. He wanted them to be a success. He didn't relish the failure of these entrepreneurs. It would be like celebrating the collapse of the American Dream.

Regardless he abided by corporate's guidebooks and bylaws to the letter and wouldn't let little infractions slide. He was a God fearing man and he'd do his job as well as if the Lord himself were watching. Sometimes he wondered why these people couldn't just do the same and follow the rules in the manual.

"Mr Pak, we simply can't allow this franchise to continue it's operation. What you've done with it goes completely against the agreement you signed when we issued the licence. We received a number of complaints, you ignored our letters, and frankly after my inspection it's clear things have been getting a little whackadoo in here."

He surveyed the store. Not a speck of dust to be seen but there were definite infractions. He clucked his tongue.

"Whackadoo?" Mr Pak repeated the word with an air of amusement and let it hang in the air. A short, doughy looking man, Pak leaned against the counter, resting lazily on his elbows, his shirt collar straining under the pressure of his neck.

Reinhardt had seen this kind of thing a few times before. There was the boss that stopped wearing pants to work, another who made his underlings run laps or do push ups when they missed target. People who took things to the extreme. It was the kind of stuff you can't see in their interviews. It seemed to him that this kind of crazy was never immediately apparent. It lay in wait until finally some kind of internal dam broke and let all that toxic weirdness flood into their regular hum drum lives.

He walked to the display behind the counter and gestured at the wall. "Well sir, looky here for an example. You got your employee of the month pictures up behind the counter."

"So what?"

"They are all of you. Every single picture is you. They go back for months. Why there must be 20 pictures of you on that wall! But really what makes it odd is that you've only been working here 8 months."

"But Mr Reiner, I am the best employee. My picture belongs on the wall. I am the supreme leader of Taco Bell"

"And that supreme leader stuff, that's another thing." Reinhardt began wagging his finger, ignoring the mispronunciation of his name."I understand you wanting your staff to respect you. They should be calling you Mr Pak if that's your preference. You can tell them there won't be none of this first name stuff, but you can't make them call you their supreme leader. It's excessive."

"Excessive." Pak considered the word. "Excessive." He made a face as he said it, like he was chewing on the word like a piece of gristly steak.

"That's right." He said, not really paying attention to Pak's distaste for his opinions. Reinhardt was engrossed in his analysis of the shop floor, checking for signs of disrepair and code violations. The store was spotless though, aside from the decor violations and inappropriate political literature littering the service counter and formica tables. He shook his head and sighed. What a waste of all the potential this location had.

*Supreme Leader Pak, courageous and strong*

He paused, the music on the tannoy finally reaching his ears. It was like a blurry picture finally coming into focus as his brain unscrambled the lyrics and he realised what he was hearing.

*Supreme Leader Pak can do no wrong!*

"What's this?" He said pointing toward the ceiling.

"What's what?"

"The music. This isn't the authorised track list we sent across."

"No. I changed it."

*We love to serve our ruler! We wish him a long life!*

"Mr Pak are these songs about you?"

"Of course. They inspire employees. They boost morale."

Reinhardt blinked in disbelief. The vainglorious nature of this man was unlike anything he'd ever seen before. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. After a few breaths he shook his head and exhaled a faint laugh.

"Oooooh boy, Mr Pak. You really do have something special going on upstairs. This is some textbook gen-u-ine narcissism going on in here let me tell you. I took a psych class in college and I know a thing or two about the human mind. In truth I'm worried for ya. You know I'm gonna have to include this in my write up."

Pak hadn't moved from the counter since Reinhardt started talking. He watched in silence, his dark eyes pursuing the intruder, not once breaking contact. If Reinhardt felt the steely gaze it didn't show.

"It's a shame you can't seem to manage your employees in a more civil manner Mr Pak. Honestly your store is clean as a whistle, you've hit an efficiency I didn't realise was possible." He held up a sheet of paper from his clipboard with some set of numbers on it and seemed genuinely impressed. "But I guess that's you Asians! Always efficient they say. Good at math!" He laughed then quickly grew stone faced and serious again. "If you could have just toned down these eccentricities after the warning letters. "

"I threw them away." Pak said cooly. "They were malapert."

"Malapert?" Reinhardt paused and let out a low whistle. "Malapert? If that means what I think it means then Sir I think we'll have to agree to disagree. The whole reason I'm here today is because we've had staff members call in to complain."

"Who complained?"

"That's not HR policy now Mr Pak. We give total anonymity. Although in this case there was a group letter. All the staff signed it and said they would not be returning to work until you were gone. Hell a few of the kids seemed to think you were going to water board them over some missing ground beef? But you know all that, it's why there's just the two of us here today." He rummaged through his pockets looking for a pen. "Now Mr Pak I have some paperwork I'll be needing your autograph on. We need to get this process going as-"

"Three of us."

"Uh, beg pardon?"

"Three. There are three of us here today." Pak slowly stepped away from the counter and the office door creaked open as a large man with an assault rifle in his hands entered the room. 

Reinhardt felt the blood drain from his face and he could feel pins and needles in his finger tips. "Now... Uh... Does he have a permit for that thing? We... Uh... Frown upon that kinda thing... Is it really necessary for that to be on the floor?"

Pak smiled "Where are your manners? You're not going to ask me who my friend is?"

Reinhardt tried not to panic as he felt his knees buckle. "What do you want from me? I don't want any trouble. I'm just doing my job."

"We are just doing our job too, Mr Raynard. But you are getting in the way." The man with the rifle walked towards Reinhardt who  stumbled into one of the hard, plastic seats.

"L-Listen! Maybe this is how they do things down in China but this is America, friend. Let's just settle down now and work something out. Maybe I don't revoke your license and you just let me leave? I won't tell anyone about this I swear!"

The man with the gun looked at Mr Pak, who nodded and pulled out a packet of Yves Saint Laurent cigarettes. He took a slim white stick from the gold foil and delicately placed it between his lips as he lit the end.

"Korea." He walked towards Reinhardt as he took a long drag.

"What?!"

Pak stooped down close to Reinhardt and exhaled. Smokey tendrils crept across his face. "Korea." He repeated. "This is how we do things in Korea." He began to laugh as he turned and walked towards the office door, his lackey advancing towards the wretched figure in the chair.

"Mr Pak-" Reinhardt choked on the cigarette fumes and his eyes watered.

"It's not Pak, it's Kim." The supreme leader corrected. "And now, Mr Reinhardt, it's my turn to fire you."

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So that is my entry. In case you couldn't tell the franchise manager is Kim Jong Un. My thinking for the story was he's hiding in the states in plain sight after pissing everyone off and fearing an assassination attempt. While not totally bumbling he's definitely not fit to run a Taco Bell.

monkey424

Still working on my piece. I'll post it this time tomorrow. :)
    

Baron

Hey folks,
     Due to the vagaries of my schedule, the deadline is officially extended until 9pm EST January 6th, or roughly 45 hours and twelve minutes from the time of this post. ;-D  Let's see some more submissions!


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