Everything Abridged, page 3
The queen spread her wisdom through memorable, pocket-sized maxims. This year she’d become fond of “Never trust a sober adult” and “A short memory means a long life.” Leather-bound books of her musings were a popular gift on Thorn Island, allowing citizens to carry the royal family’s presence with them. For similar reasons, the royal family’s used clothing and utensils were black market mainstays. Roland preferred not to dwell on that for too long. The Caribbean was full of wonders that spared him the need to reflect on human absurdity. Including the survival of a monarchy in the twenty-first century.
The royal palace was at the bottom of an ancient, revered mountain. During Thorn Island’s warring states period, the palace’s indefensible location made a statement: the Nor family—“Nor” loosely translated to “the Grim Reaper’s Chosen”—feared nothing from their rivals. Today, the Nors embraced a softer approach to governing, largely enabled by the long-past extermination of every competing noble family on the island. Spanish sailors had observed one of these purges in the eighteenth century and decided to sail on toward saner prey.
Roland enjoyed exterminating sandwiches. He finished off a tuna melt as the president’s motorcade made its way down the mountain. The flavor helped mute his fear of disappointing his mother. She wasn’t the type to reprimand him or even make a passive-aggressive comment. Her eyes would simply radiate disappointment until he slunk out of court.
The most impressive limousine drove past the prince, stopping three car lengths to his right. Six hypertrophic men in black suits (one rogue wore navy blue) and matching glasses stepped out, nodded at each other, and waved at the stragglers. A second limousine pulled in and five more hypertrophic men emerged. Followed by the president.
President McDowell had a poster-friendly face. He looked like he was in his mid-fifties, which Roland recalled as the ideal age for the white men standing behind podiums in American films and newsreels. In person, the black roots under his dye-gray hair were visible.
“Greetings, Mr. President.” The prince extended his hand.
“Greetings, Your Highness,” said President McDowell. He bowed. This wasn’t a Thorn Island tradition, so the prince assumed it was an American pastime and followed suit.
“We’re honored to have you.”
“I’m honored to be here. And now I have to go.”
“What?”
“I have a lot of ground to cover. But I hope we can do this again sometime.”
“Of course. I’m, er, glad we could get to know each other.”
The president bowed again, pivoted, and darted back into his limousine. The vehicle backed out of the palace driveway at a mildly dangerous speed and then sped up the mountain road at a pointedly dangerous speed. The rest of the motorcade struggled to follow suit. Prince Roland waved as they fled.
On March 12, Year X + 4, Prince Roland prepared to meet the new president of the United States. After years of reflecting on his first diplomatic outing, the prince decided that the Secret Service lent the president his mystique. The well-dressed killers had captured Roland’s imagination, and he’d prepared his own guard for today. Ideally the extra gravitas would lead to a longer meeting.
The new motorcade was made of black vans. Peculiarly, the president emerged from the first van to park, stepping out of the driver’s seat. He looked behind him and smiled as the rest of the motorcade struggled to catch up to their charge. Then he turned toward the royal palace and snorted. Roland coughed to make himself (and his guards) known.
“Greetings, Mr. President.” Roland bowed, recalling the last visit.
President Leon handed Roland his suitcase, coughed, and drew a cigarette. It took him three tries to light it, and he looked more frustrated with each attempt. He took two deep drags, and then put the tip out on the hood of his van. The area was full of small circular scorch marks.
“God, look at this dirt pile,” grumbled President Leon. The prince’s briefing said the man was forty, an infant in American political years. Roland chalked the layered insults up to inexperience.
“We’re honored to have you.”
“Honor my dick.”
“What?”
“Just messing with you. Don’t you people tell jokes here? Please tell me you do. I started this goddamn diplomacy tour in Russia, and we just glared at each other for half an hour. Stodgy pricks.”
“I know a few jokes,” Roland volunteered. He was off-balance but remained eager.
“Maybe later. I’ve got some American jokes for ya.”
“That sounds—”
“How many pinkos does it take to lose an election?”
“Let’s see. I’ll guess—”
“Doesn’t matter. They’re too stoned to vote. Let’s go inside, I hear your momma’s got a nice ass.”
“She’s the wisdom of our people.”
“I’m not hearing a no.”
The president adjusted his collar, popped a small white mint into his mouth, and marched up the palace steps. Roland weighed ordering his guards to open fire, but the president’s own security detail had emerged. They outnumbered Roland’s retinue two to one, and the bored glaze in their expressions said they’d consider a firefight a welcome diversion.
On December 2, Year X + 12, Prince Roland prepared to meet the new president of the United States. He looked forward to a diplomatic reset after President Leon. Over time, the queen had honored him with more responsibility. Said honor included dealing with any and all letters, phone calls, and handshakes exchanged with President Leon. It had been trying.
That said, he’d rather have tended to his sagging love life. Dating meant sorting through relentless gold diggers, foreign intelligence assets, and heirs to monarchies with flightier stances on inbreeding.
This time the motorcade descended the mountain at a leisurely place and arrived forty minutes late. The stretch limos entered in pairs instead of the standard single winding line. President Hobbes stepped out of the left car in the third row wearing a pair of red-tinted reflective sunglasses above his eyes. Before he approached, he put a hand on his forehead to block out the sun.
“Greetings, Mr. President.”
“Nice digs. Hey, Roland, can I call you Rolex?”
“What?”
“Like the watch. You’re a rich guy, it fits.”
“I don’t think I like that.”
“That’s fine. I plan on being rich too once my four years are up.” President Hobbes adopted the inspired dreamer’s expression that defined his campaign posters.
“A noble goal. I think.”
“Maybe, who knows. I try not to get caught up in that shit. I leave it for the academic types. You got any wine? I love wine.”
“We keep the palace dry. Mother is trying to quit.”
“I respect that. I tried to quit once, until I got bored of it. I find that three or so drinks help me get in the mood to look over bills. Otherwise, all that legalese starts running together.”
A question about the wisdom of drunk leadership almost reached Roland’s lips. Almost. But no other visit had gone this smoothly. This was, for all its warts, a leap forward for international relations.
“Actually, ‘Rolex’ is fine. And there’s some tequila in my quarters, if that’s your taste.”
“Sounds great, Rolex. Hey, you ever joined a coalition invasion? Because I’ve got this idea . . .”
Roland only paid cursory attention to the proposal and quickly moved the conversation back toward drinking. He had six bottles of imported SpiderHead tequila, a now-banned Arizona specialty that mixed traditional tequila with a drop of tarantula venom. Its logo was an eight-legged skeleton, ignoring biological fact in favor of making a statement. The prince and president drank out of the same bottle, hurling insults at the mountain from the roof of the royal palace.
By dawn, Roland had committed two thousand soldiers to invading a country he’d never thought about before. He hoped that most of them would make it back.
On March 16, Year X + 20, King Roland prepared to meet the new president of the United States. He missed the novelty that waiting on the palace steps once held. Now it felt too serious. There was no one above him to untangle any mistakes he might make. He could only rely on the echoes of his mother’s maxims.
Roland wore a black suit paired with a black shirt and black tie. He usually preferred more eccentric colors, but the grim cloud of his mother’s funeral still hung over him. Dignitaries from nations great and small had come to pay their respects, or at least be seen next to people paying their respects. A state funeral, if nothing else, was a good opportunity to show a solidarity transcending regional alliances. The new president had been absent.
Roland would have been insulted, but he’d come to respect a head of state’s schedule. His personal desk was coated in proposals from Parliament. He’d shredded the more obvious cash grabs and planned to review the others for subtler forms of graft. This process was, until now, his main distraction from grieving. The endless pattern had a calming, Zen garden quality.
President Tarth stepped out of the last car in his motorcade. Two of Roland’s guards exchanged small sums of cash. They’d taken to placing bets on how visiting heads of state would make their appearance. The king knew he should disapprove, but their levity had helped him get through the last three months.
“Greetings, Mr. President.”
“I know you’ve been trading with the Russians, goat-fucker. Give me one reason not to nuke this hole into next Tuesday.”
King Roland’s tongue hung limp inside his mouth. Then he recovered, steeled himself, and found a sane reaction to an insane world.
“People live here.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that, goat-fucker.”
“We don’t even have goats here.”
“Whatever, goat-fucker. I’m just here to warn you, in person. Straighten up or I’m carpet-bombing this hole and renaming it ‘Guam 2.’”
“I won’t stand for this.”
“Stand for my dick, goat-fucker.”
“What is it with you people and your dicks?”
President Tarth grabbed his crotch with one hand and flipped the king off with the other. He maintained both gestures as he reentered his van, which played a cartoonish march (which Roland later learned was called “Stars and Stripes Forever”) at painful volume while pulling out of the royal driveway. The king imagined a long four years and then corrected himself. The Americans would definitely keep this one around for eight.
————
On January 29, Year X + 28, King Roland prepared to meet the new president of the United States. After his last experience, he toyed with the idea of an assassination. But the maxims of his dearly departed mother were still with him. She believed in forgiveness, especially when the alternative was inconvenient. To that end, the king had to maintain peace with the nuclear monkey to the northwest.
News networks praised President Kei as the first female head of the American Empire, effectively vaulting two glass ceilings at once. This was, by and large, made possible by the immense personal and global failures of her predecessor. While watching him blunder brought Roland no small amount of pleasure, the threat of global thermonuclear war lost him no small amount of sleep. As he occupied his usual spot before the steps, Roland quietly prayed for someone stable to come down the mountain.
President Kei emerged from a single, tanklike vehicle. Like Roland, she had the round figure that came with pairing a civilian’s desire for food with a statesman’s authority. The king inhaled and extended his arm.
“Greetings, Madam President.” The king followed habit and bowed.
“I am so, so sorry,” said the president.
“What?”
“That’s how I’m starting all my trips. My predecessor was . . . temperamental. But I’d like you to know that we’re sorry. From now on, things are going to be different.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“I mean it. This is a fresh start for us—and everyone that comes after us. I promise you a golden future between our people.”
“We don’t fuck goats.”
“I know you don’t fuck goats. And if you did, we’d be fine with it, because we respect you and your culture.”
“We don’t fuck goats.”
“You don’t. I am so, so sorry.”
A beat passed between them.
“One of your predecessors called me Rolex.”
“Is that a slur? I’m sorry for that.”
The king laughed. He could have a decent time with this one. Her stress-induced-early-coronary attitude recalled his old friends at Thorn University. Admission required brilliance, amphetamines, or membership in the royal family. Back then, Roland liked to think he possessed all three. Today he simply considered himself blessed with patience.
On February 21, Year X + 32, King Roland prepared to meet the new president of the United States. He thought Eden Kei deserved a second term—she was the only U.S. citizen invited to his wedding—but American pundits considered failing to grow a penis a severe political blunder. The new president had shown more foresight.
This time Roland had brought out a folding chair. His ankles had been bothering him lately, and he’d come to realize that decorum did little to change how a given president treated him. They’d chosen long ago. He still maintained his guard out of habit, and the minor chance that a new president might try to bite his nose off.
Despite keeping an eye on politics around the hemisphere, the king couldn’t put a pin on any of President Torres’s political positions. Few people could. Torres had coasted through the election without putting forward much of a political platform at all. Roland wondered if it would be fun to throw an election sometime. The rules got more unclear as he got older (evidently you didn’t need the majority of votes?), but the constant novelty seemed to capture the world’s attention.
President Torres emerged from the dead center of three identical gray limousines. He approached the king with blank eyes and an unshifting smile.
“Greetings, Mr. President,” said the king.
“Hello, citizen,” said the president.
“Citizen? That’s technically true, I guess.”
“I believe in revitalizing the middle class.”
“That sounds like a quality goal. Welcome to Thorn Island.”
“I hear that Thorn Island has a thriving middle class. If not, I’m sure we can work to revitalize it.”
“. . . Right.”
“Yes, secure paths to retirement are a right of the middle class. Which I, personally, am dedicated to revitalizing.”
“Are you a robot?” The king took a step behind his guard.
“That’s a great question! I believe that revitalizing the middle class will bring us closer to an answer.”
“Well, it could be worse. Why don’t you come inside?”
“Will it—”
“Yes. Coming inside the palace is integral to revitalizing the middle class.”
President Torres beamed and followed Roland inside. After posturing for the press, the king tested how many shots the president would take in the name of revitalizing the middle class. The experiment ended with Torres passing out beneath a portrait of the dearly departed queen. Roland noted that the president mumbled sweet nothings about revitalizing the middle class in his sleep.
On February 3, Year X + 36, King Roland prepared to meet the new president of the United States. He no longer held positive or negative expectations. He simply waited to find out who the universe decided he had to work with. Hopefully, they liked to drink. The good ones usually liked to drink.
Four black Italian supercars descended the mountain. Two guards emerged from the front car and laid out a red carpet that stretched from the palace gates to King Roland’s feet. They took positions on opposite sides of the carpet and saluted as President Kincaid marched past them.
This flamboyance extended to President Kincaid’s fashion sense. He wore a bronze armlet on his right, engraved with the image of a bald eagle chopping down a cherry tree. His left armlet was made of gold and had an engraving of his own face. The engraving looked far less gaunt but was an otherwise faithful rendition of the sixty-seven-year-old former senator.
“Greetings, Mr. President.”
“Who stands before a god but does not kneel?” President Kincaid extended a gloved hand and waited. It took the king several moments to realize he was expected to kiss the large red-white-and-blue ring on his finger.
“King Roland. The leader of the sovereign nation you’re standing in.”
“You will be the king of ashes.”
“A sovereign nation with nukes,” the king added. They were new.
“Ahem. Sorry for the attitude earlier. Jet lag, you know how it is. Want to get some coffee?”
“Please leave.”
“Fine, mortal. But know that there are consequences for testing a god’s patience. You will find your political opponents much better funded—and far more heavily armed.”
“If you come back here, I’ll have you shot. I don’t care what happens afterward, I’ll have you fucking shot.”
“Why would I grace this pit twice? This is a kingdom of goat-fucking—”
“You have three minutes.”
President Kincaid jogged down the red carpet. King Roland was impressed to note that both of the guards flanking the president had drawn their sidearms and one standing by the gates had discreetly produced a compact assault rifle. Threatening Kincaid had been a risk, but Roland had read one too many goat jokes online. Some had even found their way into news articles.
On January 23, Year X + 44, King Roland prepared to meet the new president of the United States. He’d upgraded the folding chair to a full-blown lounge chair, complete with a small plastic stand holding a bowl of fresh fruit. A veteran bodyguard cut a pomegranate into fourths as the presidential motorcade rolled in. The luxury cars had been replaced with Japanese motorcycles, for reasons that probably made sense to the Americans. The king didn’t worry himself about that kind of thing these days.
