CHAPTER 2: THE OLIGARCHS MEET IN COUNCIL
Copyright: Thomas Hoskyns Leonard January 2016
PRELIMINARY DRAFT VERSION
Princess Natasha was awoken the next morning by her Trinkon slave boy when he came gingerly into her bedchamber with a mug of bongvole bovril and three poached ostrolight eggs.
“Throw that grease-ridden tray over the piano, slave-runt,”she commanded, “and how many rioters and terrorists did the Praetorian Guard leave for dead on the palace lawns yesterday?”
When the slave got rid of the breakfast tray it crashed into a dusty framed portrait of the British ambassador which was leaning against the wall.
“Only thirteen, Sister Natasha,” he replied, quite forlornly. “The Daily Inquisitor reports that the soldiers showed considerable constraint and expressed a modicum of sympathy for the victims.”
“Good,---hummmm--- Osamu. You may advise the Vestal Virgins to bring my Robes of State.”
“Yes, Sister Natasha,” replied Osamu Mangasarian, more assertively. “Three bags full, Sister Natasha. And one for the little chump who starves down the lane.”
“Funny ha ha!”
How empathetic of me, mused Natasha, to acknowledge the little runt's Christian name. It was fun watching my narcissistic twin brother putting him through his paces on the patio yesterday afternoon though. And didn't I have a superb time in the steam room and the St. Margo of Mystique Chamber later? Oh happy, happy, days!
Prince Adam of Eden was at his most excited, and feeling young for his age, later that morning, when he met with an august group of VIPs in the Lotus Room. Princess Natasha was among the last to arrive, flourishing a hippo-horse whip and hauling her husband Prince Hamlet along behind her on a chain attached to his metal-studded leather dog collar. When she sat down on the Peacock Throne, the determined-looking young man dutifully knelt at her feet and squashed a couple of roaches with his bare hands.
“Sock it to them, Hammy!” yelled Adam, only to be gently cuffed in the ear by his Aunt Ophelia.
Hamlet was muscular and bare-chested with ruffled raven hair, and he was scantily dressed in a ragged grey kilt and wooden Dutch clogs. In contrast, Natasha was attired in flowing silver robes and a sapphire-ridden gold headpiece inset with three red reinmooses' antlers.
A human beefeater with a gap in his teeth knocked on the door with a mace and, after being bidden to enter by the princess, announced, “Your Imperial Highness, I address you as the Chair Wizard of this esteemed Council of State. The Grand High Yin requests your permission to enter and lead the meeting.”
“So granted,” replied the princess, swishing Prince Hamlet's scar-ridden back with her whip.
Prince Adam gasped when the cat-like felixian Trithagoras Tullius Cicero strode into the room bearing the red boxes of office and sat himself down on the Yin's High Chair at the far end of the Oval Table of Caliburn. He looks as if he's running the show, thought Adam.
“Your Imperial Highnesses and esteemed colleagues,” announced Lord Trithagoras. “We all sadly grieve for Felixius, the courageous Republican leader, and for the thirteen Citizens of Qinsatorix who perished in such noble causes in Trivoli yesterday afternoon.”
“May they rest in peace and rise in glory,” cried Prince Caleb of Trystonia, to fairly general murmurings of approval. Adam endeavoured to restrain himself from hissing.
“Perhaps we could initiate the proceedings by inducting three new members into our Grand Oligarchy,” continued Trithagoras. “Would the Prince Consort, the Prince Infanta, and Professor Angervast Friedman-Kissinger please approach the Imperial Throne so that they may be put to everlasting endurement by the Sacred Blessing of Nebbararthurius? I also call upon the Prince Imperial to bring forth the Dagger of Galahad with his hand on its resistant brand and hand it to our much revered Chair Wizard, the Goddess of the Antlers.”
Prince Hamlet of Denmark didn't have far to go. When he swivelled around on his knees,