A DRAFT EXCERPT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED NOVEL (APRIL 2016) SET ON THE
PLANET QINSATORIX.
It was a proud day for Fred Oink, the proprietor of the Fanny Freegan
Restaurant on Constitution Street. The portly Apollo Pig had been
invited to prepare supper for the Crown Princess Natasha in the
palace kitchens that very evening.
What a turn up for the books! The Apollo Pigs hadn't received a
favourable press since their thoroughly revolting revolt in the
Archipelago of the Barnstormers five years previously. But now one of
their number was to be honoured by the Crown Princess, her very self.
Oink briefly recalled the manner in which Admiral McSporran and the
battle-fleet had stomped on the heroic 2013 Rising of the Apollo
Pigs, but promptly shoved those ideas to the back of his head. That
was where he stored most of his empathy.
Oink stuffed a couple of bottles of well-chosen herbs from
Wisconsin into his side pockets, and waved good-bye to his two sons,
who were busy carving the pork roast on an oval, crimson table in the
middle of his jam-packed restaurant.
I'm looking forward to the arrival of several little Oinks,
thought Oink, as he set off on his trike. Then I can get out my
Bayko set, and build towers into the sky.
A few minutes later, Fred Oink was guided into the upper palace
kitchen by two pretty, smiling page-girls with propellers for
breasts.
How absolutely propondorously smutting! He enthused.
The Crown Princess was waiting, with two grinning beefeaters,
by a huge, stone stove. The coals were already piping, crimson hot.
“Why, good evening Mr. Oink.” Condescended Princess
Natasha, at her most charming. “We were in the process of deciding
whether to eat a wild boar or an elk for supper tonight, while my
husband is away gallivanting. But which animal would you recommend
for my palate?”
The master chef pulled a bottle of Highland Mystic
herbs out of his left pocket, and grinned obsequiously.“These
delicious spices would blend entasticiously with a boar, Your
Imperial Highness. If you would kindly permit me to prod it, then a
succulent aroma will arise, the meat will fall for from its bones,
and it will assuage your appetite in a manner which will most
gainfully surprise.”
“Should we kill it before we skewer it?” asked the
beefeater with the gap in his teeth.
“Ram hard when you skewer it, old chap, but let it live,
squawking is head off, until the charcoal envelopes its mind. That
always improves the taste.”
“That sounds rather cruel,” said the princess, with a pout.
“Maybe we should call the Q.S.P.C.A.”
“They don't object, Your Highness,” said Oink, “for an
extra pittance in their pocket as per necessary.”
The princess produced a four cubit long, spiral skewer from out
of thin air.
“That settles it then,” she declared. “Prepare the old
bore for skewerage, my dear British friends.”
“Shall I ask the Praetorians to pipe in the wild boar,
Ma'am?” asked the beefeater with the purple pimple, looking
puzzled.
“That would only serve to provide us with extra ceremony,”
replied the princess, with a deft nod. “Our food is already here.”
“What an earth do you mean, Your Highness?” asked the
bewildered Apollo pig, with a twitch of his tail.
The Princess Natasha answered ne'er a word until the beefeaters
had secured Oink's arms and shoved his head between his knees.
“Prepare for incision!” Yelped Natasha. “Take off!”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarg!”
“Oink!” responded the princess,
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