It all looks rather bleak if I do say so, I would have thought that the great king Emerald Embronite would have gone the whole nines. Looking around I only count forty-five gem laden elephants, when last summer he had forty-seven. I suppose a blue whale in the second story pool makes up for that but I wonder if he isn’t on a budget.  Queen Emma is also looking her age, I don’t think she’s gone in to see the stretcher in days, how the mighty have sagged.

Are those gorillas on stilts juggling armadillos? No they are just small children with back problems, honestly this party cannot get more depressing. The dance floor is better than I expected, twenty inches of glass separate the dancers from a forty foot drop into a lake of lava.

Oh look there is the king now, I should go say hello. “Your Majesty, how wonderful it is to see you in good health.”

“Ah, my boy, how are you?” his royal fat-ass waddles over to me and extends a greasy hand. “I was just telling Constable Wigginton about your marvelous limericks, Bryan.”

Limericks, you think what I wright is limericks you bloated bastard, “thank you sire, you are to kind to this humble writer.”

“Yes, King Emerald is a kind Master isn’t he,” Wigginton says, his voice sounds like the slow gloop of tar. How I wish I could sink my dagger deep in your chest.

“To right you are Constable,” I bow only for sake of appearances. “I was wondering sire, have you taken a look at the new set of decrees you asked me to write.”

“I leafed through them, do they have to be so bloody wordy?” he laughs till snot comes out of his bulbous nose. “Honestly boy, for an uneducated man you love your filling words don’t you. How do you expect your kind to understand the court’s ruling if you make it difficult for them to read?”

“I am sorry, sire.” Sorry you can’t string to fucking words together you twat. I will try harder sire, “and while you leaf though the next set, I’ll be in your bed beating the royal hag.”

“What did you say?”

Oh shite that was supposed to be an inside thought. Look for a save, rerun interaction, got it. “Tis a sample of my new limerick sire, I call it ‘the Jest of the jester’, and I may need help with the title. Which is why I bring it up.”

“I see, well if that’s the first line it is quit catchy.” He laughs, mildly confused. Wigginton looks at me through narrowed eyes, but while the king is happy he does nothing.

The moment they leave I take two flagons of mead from a servant and drain them one after the other. I may not think much of the king, and I may be having an affair with his wife, but I do find it quite tasteful to carry on living. Someday I may not be so luck with life, someday I may hear a knock at the door. A legion of soldiers will be waiting to take me away, never to be seen again. Till then I should try and keep out of trouble.

For now I will need to devise a way to rid my life of that nosey Constable Wigginton. I might be able to poison him, or I can wait until he goes hunting and kill him then. But I’ll have to plot a way that seems accidental, like a wild pack of dogs or a throw from his horse into a mad river filled with piranha that devour only enough so that he may be identified when he washes ashore. But then people will ask what piranha are doing this far north. Forget it I’ll just get a eunuch to kill him while he sleeps, it’ll be quicker than waiting for some fish to arrive.

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