Gangrene and pestilence part 4

The Prince awoke with a jolt like he had a taser goad jammed up his arus.

It had been the same dream as the night before, and the night before that. The ache in his feet. The cool wet mud that engulfed his searing epidermis.

Too much It was too much

The prince would seldom lift a finger throughout the day if he could get around it, and an aching boredom would typically set in by the afternoon, one that could typically only be absolved by a smoke or in the company of a harlot. But not today.

For today was the day of his reckoning.

“When a boy becomes a man” the Autark had said, “he must adapt to his imminent responsibilities. Else, he remains a boy. Do you wish to be a boy or a king?” He had tuned out at that point in the monologue. He found court meetings to be a tiresome chore, despite him having little input or tasks assigned to him. But not today.

He threw off the burlap bedding, and pulled his rags about him. ‘A cape will do nicely today’ he thought to himself, and donned the scarlet mantle. He shaved his face, crapped into a bucket and washed himself to the best of his ability with a rancid sponge that had a rod impaled through it. Normally he would have a smoke in the morning. But not today.

He stood up, cracked his back, which was sore from all the lazing around he did, and set out with a flat footed determination for the Autarks palace.

It sat squat and ugly like a spiney black gargoyle defecating onto the beautiful ashy greenery around it. Outside, a tall brute leant against a hideously crafted spear, sucking on a tin pipe. He waved the prince through with a withdrawn apathy.

He could hear shouting down the hallway.

The first thing the prince saw on entering the room was the ridiculous pointy had the Autark was wearing. It looked like he had a coat hanger on his head.

There at the ludicrously large table, sat the Autark and his Goliath, who was already on his second baby of the day. Opposite them were Mickey, and Roheisen who sat with his arms folded and a sneer on his fat bloodied snout. Diablo was curled up at his father’s feet under the table, like a dutiful mongrel, his horns just shy of a cubit from the rotting calf.

He didn’t bother to ask what had happened.

The Autark picked up an obscene stack of mismatched papers, covered in an illegible scrawl recognisable only to him.

“My boy, as I’m sure you’re aware today is the day of your reckoning,” he said, as though it wasn’t the fifth consecutive time he had reminded the Prince.

“You will be hopeless on a farm. You cannot wield a blade to save your life, and the last time you picked up a stump gun you almost blew your own foot off.”

The Prince grew redder by the second.

“You cannot lead. You never bothered to learn to read or write. You cannot rally the public. You cannot provide the figure head they need in these trying times.”

The prince grew hot from rage and embarrassment.

“Tell me roter junge. What will you do in the name of your father and for the good of Eden?”

“I will find him.”