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,
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