Part Two - Chapter One

Part Two
Friday
Chapter One

1

Kling-klang, kling-klong! Klong-kling, kling-klang! Kbonnnggg! Kbonnnggg! Kbonnnggg! . . .

“What the hell,” Christopher yelled, throwing back the satiny covers.

“Rise and shine, honey,” said Vincent, standing in his robe beside the big mullioned window, slowly drawing back the heavy brocade curtains. He then sat down in front of his computer and lit a cigarette.

“Where am I?!” Christopher said, bolstering himself up in the bed and furiously rubbing his eyes. Finally he opened them and looked up. “Oh,” he said, seeing Vincent where he sat, and grinned.

Vincent grinned back. “Sorry about the alarm,” he said, “but we’ve got to get ready for breakfast.”

“What is that thing?! Big Ben?!” Christopher said, bleary-eyed.

“Big Benz, babe,” said Vincent, gazing out the window. “This is King Ludwig’s Castle, remember?”

The growsers meanwhile regrouped themselves in their corner of the bed and, without even looking up, covered their eyes with their tiny paws. They were sleeping in, as usual.

“So how about a nice hot jacuzzi?” Vincent said, standing up and shrugging off his robe.

2

The Breakfast Room gleamed and glistened with polished dark-wooden panels, ornate ormolu sconces, a huge marble-topped sideboard arrayed with embossed gold plates, fresh bunches of flowers everywhere, and an enormous crystal chandelier hanging above the exquisitely appointed table, in the center of which sat an elaborate candelabrum full of flickering white candles. The table itself was situated lengthwise in front of a large bay window with the curtains drawn shut. Shut or not, Christopher had to shield his eyes upon entering the room.

“You sit here,” Vincent said with a smile, pointing to a gleaming gilded chair alongside the head of the table and facing the window. Vincent sat himself down at the head of the table in a high-backed—well—throne of a chair. Manolo took a seat opposite Christopher. “I’m not usually one to stand on ceremony,” Vincent said, “but the people love this.”

A waiter dressed in full Beefeater raiment then entered the room and drew open the curtains. Hundreds of people were amassed outside the big window, looking in—entire families, with small children straddling their parents’ shoulders, the ones in front pressing their noses to the glass, others taking snapshots, and still others rolling camcorders.

“It’s ‘Breakfast with the King,’” said Vincent. “The glass is bullet-proof, of course.” Vincent’s slightly damp hair—or what remained of it—shone like gold and silver filaments in the piercing light. “So what’ll you have to eat?” he said, looking over at Christopher, who, he noticed, was still squinting. “Just name it.”

Presently a tall, slender woman entered the room and closed the door behind her with a sharp crack. Her appearance startled Christopher. Albeit finely featured, her face was distinctly pale, in contrast with her chestnut-colored hair and the purple sateen pajamas she was wearing. She sported a Gloria Vanderbilt bob, drop-dead straight and still damp from the shower, hairs tucked in place behind her shapely, outward-projecting ears. A turquoise silk scarf was knotted about her throat, accentuating her long, slender neck. She appeared to be somewhat startled by the sight of Christopher, as well, emitting (as she did) an inscrutable raspy sound when she caught sight of him.

“Well, what have we here?” she said, stiffly approaching the table as she glanced over at Christopher, her arms pinned straight down her sides, her fists clenched.

“Margot,” Vincent said, rising from his chair and pecking her on the cheek, “I’d like you to meet Christopher Pymm. Christopher, this is Dame Margot St. Vincent McCrea, our Prime Minister.”

Christopher rose from his seat to shake her hand, which she offered somewhat tentatively, still half-clenched. She then took a seat in her own throne of sorts down at the foot of the table, opposite Vincent.

“She’s the number one Lesbian at Kings World,” Vincent said, smiling down at Margot, “and also quite an accomplished painter of late. She did one of the Rembrandts at the Twisted Tulip—a project for an oil-painting class. Look,” he said, pointing toward a corner of the room. “She painted that miniature there. That was when she was first starting out.”

Margot bowed her head and smiled politely, saying nothing, looking down at Christopher askance.

* * *

“Oh, boy,” Manolo was thinking. It was indeed a rarity for Vincent to bring a date to breakfast, and no doubt Margot would be miffed. In fact, she seemed fairly miffed already, judging by the way she was clearing her throat and fluttering her eyes.

Around Kings World it was common knowledge, at least among the locals, that Margot was Vincent’s designated successor to the Queer Throne, and Manolo thought, as did most of the citizenry, that she’d make one hell of a queen. Yet many of the guys—Manolo included—had always hoped Vincent would someday find another guy, a partner, a spouse, to pass the reign along to. And of course Margot was fully aware of that possibility.

No doubt, in fact, it filled her with a certain dread, not to say that she craved power so much—though in the minds of many she did—but that she genuinely had the state’s best interest at heart (as Vincent well knew) and probably feared that Vincent would fall prey to some ambitious, designing young scoundrel (but of course, Vincent knew better). And to further complicate matters, Vincent and Margot were best friends.

“Fasten your seat belts!” Manolo was thinking, spreading his napkin across his lap. Manolo would just sit there and act dumb, as he always did whenever Margot was around.

* * *

Presently the waiter re-entered the room carrying a red brocade pillow upon which sat a large, gleaming crown. It was, to be precise, an elegant helmet of a crown, similar to those worn by the British monarchs on the most ceremonious of occasions, consisting of a fur-lined gold band surmounted by a row of gold medallions, from the upper margins of which ascended two gold arches crossing at right angles and encrusted with precious stones. The arches dipped in the center where they crossed, at which point sprouted a gold fleur-de-lis.

The waiter set the pillow down on the sideboard and carefully picked the crown up and held it aloft. He then walked over behind Vincent and lowered it atop Vincent’s head.

“What, no funny hat today?” said Margot, unfolding her napkin as she stared amidst all the finery down the long table.

“I think this should suffice,” Vincent said, smiling as he reached up with both hands and pulled the crown snugly into place. “Damn this thing is heavy.”

Manolo momentarily reached up and adjusted his own little crown; it was nothing so elaborate as Vincent’s, but, then again, it wasn’t nearly as heavy either, thank goodness. He thought Margot’s remark was, to say the least, impertinent; Vincent would never don a disguise with the curtains open. The waiter meanwhile retreated from the room carrying the pillow.

“Actually, I’m trying to act more kingly,” Vincent said, unfolding his own napkin and placing it in his lap. “I assume you got my email.”

“Yes,” Margot said. “And I agree with you one hundred percent.”

“So you approve of the new Vincent Doctrine, then.”

"Absolutely. We've gotta put a stop to this. The next thing you know, they'll be flying into the dome like kamikazes-- fanatical loons that they are!"

Just like the Islamist suicide bombers, Manolo was thinking, though he refrained from chiming in. Ay caramba!

“Right. So no more cowering! No more clowning around! It’s time to show the world who’s king here, and that the king means business!” said Vincent. “So, with that said, let’s eat!” He then reached for a small gold bell sitting beside him on the table and rattled it, whereupon two waiters entered the room bearing cut-glass pitchers of fresh-squeezed orange juice and ice water, along with silvery pots of tea and coffee.

“There’s no menu here,” Vincent said, looking over at Christopher. “Just order anything you want. You name it.”

“Well, I’m not real big on the usual breakfast food,” Christopher said.

“Neither am I,” said Vincent. “Just order what you’d like.”

“Anything?” Christopher said, his eyes widening now.

Vincent nodded back at him.

“You sure?”

Vincent nodded again. “We have everything here, believe me.”

The waiters meanwhile went around pouring beverages.

“Well, then,” Christopher said, “to start with . . .” Christopher gazed up at the coffered, gilt ceiling and squinted. “How about a nice big bowl of . . .” He then looked over at Vincent. “Boiled swamp eels. Ma fav’rite!”

Margot abruptly cleared her throat, raising her napkin to her mouth, while Manolo screwed up his face and shuddered.

“Very cute,” Vincent said, chuckling. “Seriously. What’ll it be?”

Margot rolled her eyes when Christopher ordered coq au vin with haricots verts and a big dish of fettuccini carbonara on the side. Vincent was quick to take note of Margot’s gesture. “And you, Miss Thing, what’ll it be?” he called down to her, wearing an impish grin.

* * *

“Well, how about them swamp eels?” Vincent said, looking over at Christopher as he twirled his fork in his fettuccini.

“Scrumptious,” Christopher said upon downing his forkful.

“Of course, we boil ‘em alive—that way, they’re fresh,” said Vincent, “and you should hear ‘em squeal. The cook practically faints when they do that.”

Margot rolled her eyes again.

“And Miss Thing,” Vincent said, “how’s that brown ooze you’re having? Looks mighty fine.”

Margot squeezed a lemon wedge over her jellied beef consommé and glowered down at Vincent.

Vincent momentarily ignored her. “And Manolo,” he said, “how about that fresh, ground growser you’ve got there? Smells great!”

“Oh, come on!” Manolo said, cracking a smile as he shoveled in a big bite of Cuban-style picadillo.

“Me, I’ll stick to my caterpillar cocktail,” Vincent said, glancing down at his goblet full of plump shrimp. “Look! They’re eating the lettuce leaves!”

Everyone momentarily looked up.

“Fooled you!” Vincent said, taking a sip of frothy, freshly squeezed orange juice and then licking his mustache. “And by the way, this grasshopper juice is great!”

“Good grief! Use your napkin!” Margot called down at Vincent.

“Why waste it?!” Vincent replied, licking his mustache again. “And, Missy, would you please pass the Royal Jelly!”

Margot rolled her eyes again and sighed.

3

“I wanna bag some faggots!” Luke snarled, brandishing the new assault rifle he’d purchased at the Swap Meet the previous morning. He and Matt had arisen at the crack of dawn in order to beat the crowd and have first choice of the day’s offerings, before heading off to church. Sundays were always the best days at the Swap Meet, and Luke had been thrilled to find his shiny new toy.

“Luke, put that thing down!” Matt hollered. “We’re on a religious mission, remember?!”

Mark, who was piloting the airplane, squirmed in his seat. He’d said there was to be no drinking on the plane and already Luke and Matt had finished off a six-pack between them. And now Luke was fiddling with his gun.
At least Sally was sober, Mark reckoned. She had upchucked her breakfast shortly after take-off and now appeared to be resting comfortably in the seat beside him, eyes closed, seemingly oblivious to the commotion in the rear of the cabin.

“I wanna kill some sons of bitches!” Luke said, twirling the rifle in the air, with one finger poking through the trigger guard.

“I said, put that down!” Matt yelled again at Luke. “You’ll blow us out of the fuckin’ sky!”

Now that got Sally’s attention. As awful as she was feeling—and God only knew how she looked—she turned around to holler at Luke herself. She should never have startled him, alas.

* * *

“Ms. Brown, your wake-up call,” the voice said.

“My what!” she squawked into the receiver, hurtling rapidly out of her dream, her heart thumping. It had been the third time she’d had the dream that night.

“It’s the Front Desk, Ms. Brown,” the voice said politely.

“Yes, thank you,” Jane said, replacing the receiver on its cradle with a sigh. She felt relieved to be back in the waking world once again.

4

“Well, Miss Brown’s got quite a knack for story-telling, I’ll say,” Vincent said, dive-bombing a shrimp into a bowl of remoulade sauce. “I won’t even tell you what this stuff is,” he said, eyeing the little bowl.

“Please don’t,” said Margot, clutching her spoon in her fist.

Christopher jabbed at his green beans and took a big bite-full, which squeaked in his mouth as he chewed. “My, these are nice and fresh,” he said.

“Too bad I fell asleep before the ending,” Vincent said, “but it was funny though.”

“That was just Part One of two,” Christopher said, attacking his coq. “I read a little bit ahead. Part Two sounds even better.”

“Well, you’ll just have to stick around for Part Two then,” said Vincent, raising his glass of juice.

Christopher smiled up at him.

* * *

Wow, Manolo was thinking. It had been a long time since Vincent had a repeat caller—in fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time. Not that Vincent was promiscuous—quite to the contrary—and Manolo knew his every move, in practically every sense of the word. “Margot’s not going to like this one bit,” he was thinking, skewering a piece of olive and then a raisin, the last morsels on his plate.

* * *

The bus boy, dressed up like Robin Hood, removed the plates and silverware while one of the waiters refreshed the beverages.

“Well, that was mighty good,” Vincent said, laying his napkin aside. “Now on to the affairs of state!”

“No pun intended, I’m sure,” Margot shot back, casting a cold, stony glance over at Christopher, who was waving to the crowd outside the bay window. The crowd was all waving back, noses and mouths pressed against the smudgy glass.

Manolo squirmed in his seat.

“Do I detect a note of sarcasm here?” Vincent said, staring back down at Margot as she glanced over at Christopher. “So that’s what’s bothering you this morning. I just couldn’t be sure.”

“What do you mean?” Margot said, ratcheting her heavy chair back from the table.

“I can’t believe you’re acting, well, jealous,” said Vincent. “And, for Christ’s sake, stop rolling your eyes!”

“Oh, please,” Margot said, glaring stone-faced down at Vincent.

Christopher meanwhile pricked up his ears and began to blush. Then he felt a surge of heartburn and reached into his “fag bag”—his leather waist-pouch—for a Tums.

“If you’ll excuse meee,” Margot said, rising from her chair.

5

“Well, I’m glad she’s gone,” Vincent said, recoiling from the thunderous slamming of the wooden door. “She’s got lots to do anyway. Hell, we’re in the midst of a national crisis. No time to sit around and act, well, weird!”

“Sorry, babe,” he said, looking over at Christopher. “That was very unladylike of her. But, as Pauline says in Jane’s story, ‘Things do have a way of working out.’”

Manolo emitted a slow sigh of relief, while Christopher sat perfectly still, his ears ringing even as they burned.

“So, Christopher,” Vincent said, “how about a nice, leisurely ride through the park? We’ll dust off the Kingmobile. Hell, I hope it still runs,” he said, turning aside to Manolo.

Manolo was grinning. It had been months, perhaps a year even, since Vincent had taken out the Kingmobile. The Kingmobile always made Manolo’s job more challenging, more exciting, although the vehicle was bulletproof, of course.

“The people just love it,” Vincent said, “and I can give you the Royal Tour.”

“I’m game,” Christopher said, smiling over at Vincent and then gazing out the window once again. He was finally calming back down.

Vincent rang the bell beside him and a waiter promptly re-entered the room. “Tell Bunny to cancel all my engagements, and then send for the car, please,” Vincent said, flashing Christopher a toothy grin. “We’re going around the World!”

Christopher again pricked up his ears and began to blush.