The Art Site

Friday, December 26, 2008

Snip Part 8

In order for our story to make sense and include all those details that are so integral a part of it, the authors would like to beg our long suffering reader's pardon and return to the palace where some quite unfortunate things are taking place.

(In the Royal Throne Room. His Majesty the King of Somethingeratha is seated on the golden throne, the Queen is enthroned at his right hand, the Royal Councillor is blowing his nose loudly to one side of the throne, the courtiers wait around anxiously. One unimportant and worthless boy, a page (whose name happens to be Paige) is standing in the corner, looking annoyed.)

"But this is outrageous!" Declared the King, and hastily took from an ornate box at his side a large piece of Turkish Delight. He bit into the sticky sweetness with evident pleasure.
Still chewing and spraying icing sugar-and-cornflour in showers over his Royal knees, King Henry turned to the Royal Councillor interrogatively.
"So, what have you been doing in these few hours to try and recover her Royal Highness, the Princess Arabella?"
He finished chewing, swallowed (his enormous double chin compressing and making his face look like a large pancake) and brushed off his knees, seemingly unconcerned to hear what the Royal Councillor had to say.
The Royal Councillor coughed apologetically.
"Well, Your Royal Highness, after much long and highly debated converse with the fifteen other Councillors, we have reached the conclusion that the Princess has in fact, run away. We know this because an old horse by the name of Clare has been taken from the stables and also, the Cook has informed me that copious quantities of bread and cheese have also been taken from the kitchens. Your Majesty, we were shocked by this grievous news and we offer you our sincere sympathy at this time."
Throughout this speech the King's face was darkening with a menacing fury. Grabbing his sceptre, he slammed it hard against the marble steps.
"But WHAT have you done? You stupid fool! What have you done to get the Princess back? Don't you know that this story will soon be all over the land of Somethingeratha? We will be shamed, disgraced, and I personally will sack you and all the other deceiving, lying Councillors. You're blood suckers, the lot of you. Tell me one thing you've done to get Her Highness back and you and the other Councillors will keep your jobs."

At this all-important juncture, the worthless page boy walked over to the Royal Councillor. The Councillor being a short, fat little man with spectacles, Paige had to bend over to whisper something in his ear. Charisma (the Councillor) looked suddenly relieved by something. His Royal Majesty became a little impatient.

"What is this!" He demanded. "What is this unimportant page boy doing, whispering away? Don't you know it's rude to whisper, boy?" The page shrugged.
Charisma the Councillor looked up, adjusted his spectacles and coughed into a be-speckled handkerchief rather importantly.
"Your Majesty, I have found the answer to the problem. Have you ever heard of a man who goes by the name of Nicholas?"
"You pompous fool!"Cried the King. Of course I know of a man named Nicholas! I know dozens of 'em! What are you getting at?"
"My apologies, Your Majesty. This man's last name is Moron. Nick Moron. His profession is to hunt down criminals, arrest them and hand them over to the police. This particular man knows every one's secrets and his speciality is to track down and bring back to confinement, runaways." Charisma waved his spotted handkerchief around excitedly.
"This man is perfect for the job! He can bring back the Princess Arabella!"
King Henry smoothed his long mustachios thoughtfully.
"Hmmmm. Bring him in then, and we'll question him." (Charisma turns to Paige and gives a signal. Paige hurries out of the throne room.)


In the hushed silence, everyone in the throne room heard this shuffling noise long before they saw this rat-catcher, this plague on mankind, this disgusting odour that was Nick Moron.
Then, at the entrance of the throne room, there stood the man. Should we even call him a man? If he was a man it was not by much. We will attempt to show our readers what this man looked like with a verbal picture.

He would have been quite tall but one shoulder was crooked, so he leaned to his right side permenantly. Because of this disability, he always craned his small, egg-shaped head round to look up and peered sucpiciously at whoever was speaking to him. His face was smooth but his eyes potruded alarmingly and his nose was shrunken into his skull. The hands on this creature were perhaps the most revolting aspect of it all: long fingers with knuckles and veins that stood out freakishly. Instead of nails, the creature possessed little stumpy bits of matter where they should have been. He was a most voracious nail - biter. He had a highly disturbing way of rubbing one hand over the other, or tapping his fingers together, in a way that inspired terror into the heart of the innocent beholder.

For some reason that even the authers of this story do not know, the man walked with a limp. The dragging of his sandaled feet along the tiled floor caused the shuffling noise.
He stood in the doorway for a little while, as though to gain as much attention as he could. His pale, thin lips curved into a smile that was perhaps the more terrible for not being believable.
Dragging his lame leg along the floor, he made his way to the Throne where His Majesty and Her Majesty sat expectantly. Stopping at the bottom of the steps to the throne, one of those beastly hands grasped the round felt hat on his head and pulled it off with a flourish.
The Queen gasped.
The creature's head was completely bald and had some strange markings on it. It looked very similar to a thrush's egg, however it was not so pretty.
The strange smile-that-was-not-a-smile appeared once more on this monstrosity's face.
Nick Moron advanced slitheringly up a couple of the golden steps and took the Queen's rose-scented, powdered hand. Bending over it, he kissed it with those foul lips.
This being done, he stepped back and eyed the King and Queen ingratiatingly.
"Your Majesties, Nick Moron at your service."


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