The Return Of The King

Once again, and without further gibberish, I bring you the wise words of my liege, the noble king, courtesy of brave Sir Matthew S.:



I TAKE MY VICTORIES LIKE I TAKE MY BOSTON-CREAMED DOUGH-NUTS

FOUR OF THEM, SERVED CONSECUTIVELY!

PAY HEED, my humble minions! For it is not every day that your King speaks so plainly, or with breath so shallow. I have taken leave of my royal banquet to caress your ear-holes with tales of what is, and of what is yet to be.

Gather 'round.

As Mother Sun rose this ‘morn and gave succor to the dawn, the ice-clad fields of De-Troit gazed upon her bosom with eyes anew, and sweat-pants a-tented. Her golden rays bathed the ground in warmth, and gave form to the lifeless, shadowy husks that littered the earth. And as she robed these dark blobs in her warming glow, it was revealed once again that on this day, the corpses belonged to the King’s vanquished enemies. And to those who would feign surprise at this outcome most inevitable, I would say but four words:

Get used to it.

I might then, by royal decree, submit an addendum of still two more words:

Get fucked.

There exists today NO WALL that can halt the King’s armies! NO SHIELD that can give pause to his arrows! NO PLATE of fried potato sticks, no matter how smothered by cheese, that can repel his royal gravy! We are today a juggernaut, a many-pistoned engine of death that shall thrust itself wherever the King pleases. He need only point his royal scepter at a target, and it shall be thusly obliterated.

And yet, the King’s royal scepter remains sheathed in the knit caddy that hangs over the arm of his throne. For you see—if, indeed, you CAN see over the small mountain range of corpses that litters these lands—there is simply no one left to vanquish. Indeed, the King’s armies have earned their respite from the grounds of battle. Today, we feast. Tomorrow, we rest, and prepare for the next harvest of souls, and chips of corn. My charges shall have at least eight-and-ten fortnights of revelry before they are again called to rend flesh from bone.

HARK! TRUMPETEERS! I would have fanfare for my bravest warriors!

BLOW THY HORN for the young squire STAF-FORD, who has toiled endlessly behind the scenes and between the sheets to restock the King’s never-ending supply of cannon fodder. Is there a flaxen-haired service wench in the whole kingdom who does not find herself with child by this virile knight of the King’s table? In one-and-twenty years, the borders of De-Troit will pulse and swell with endless hordes of tow-headed, cannon-armed bastards, ready to rain tightly-spiraled death upon all who oppose the King! HUZZAH!

BLOW THY HORN for the noble HOUSE OF SPEARS! But don’t blow too hard, lest your incessant blaring drown out the sound of his approach. You do not want to be the latest stain on the ground that proud NDAMUKONG leaves in his wake. For the next ten harvests, he shall be the bloody point of the King’s arrow, the grand penetrator, the thickly-veined, rage-fueled thunder-shaft that shall aerate the sternum of any and all who would stand in the King’s way. It is upon his broad shoulders that mine legend shall be built, and before his grim visage that mine enemies shall soil themselves. HUZZAH!

BLOW THY HORN for Sergeant Slaughter himself, my general and yours, the dread pirate SCHWARTZ! The King cannot always be there to lead his armies to victory. In fact, it has become increasingly rare that His Royal Highness makes it to the front lines. You see, the royal knees are not what they used to be, and the King’s palace is separated from the battlefield by a good-many hundred stairs. It is thusly made necessary to anoint a Leader of Men that can fill mine boots, and SCHWARTZ is his name! Let it ring throughout the halls! SCHWARTZ! SCHWARTZ! SCHWARTZ! HUZZAH!

Is it really almost five hours past noon? My word, time flies much like a pass from the arm of Squire Stanton—wobbly, and with little purpose. Alas, I must retire to mine chambers royal for a scheduled sponge-down. By my watch, my hardiest wenches are now working the bellows ‘neath my bath, no less strenuously than they shall soon be working mine own hairy bellows.

But FEAR NOT mine loyal subjects! Tho’ the time for campaigning has passed, there are still battles to be fought! Even now, General Tso is launching a full-scale land invasion of mine lower intestine! Though he fights with fiery purpose, I aim to take that squirrelly yellow bastard to the porcelain graveyard! Alas, just as soon as I finish these barbecued spare ribs. I will let you know how it goes. And remember, my bless-ed vassals…













All hail the King.