u/jefe_escritor

Any and all critiques or comments are welcome :) thanks!

“That won’t do,” Patrick muttered as he tossed another shirt back into the closet. The Festival of Gratitude was today and citizens of Florton considered a sharp outfit as essential to the affair as banana cream pie and ceremonial gymnastics. Patrick considered himself a wily operator, having executed undercover assignments wildly different locales ranging from Zurich to Munich. However, he still felt he was missing something here.

Florton was a lively town that hummed with efficiency no matter where one looked. Trains arrived exactly on schedule and cars flowed through the streets in such coordination visitors wondered if the traffic lights were purely for decoration. And it was clean. Not in comparison to other cities or towns of similar populations. It was clean. Not a hair out of place, inside or outside, rich or poor, night or day. Just clean.

The agency told Patrick he would be investigating Florton five weeks after he completed a six month stint infiltrating a Vienna-based crime family. There were reports of travelers disappearing in the surrounding areas, and the insular town had been as uncooperative with investigations as they could be without facing legal repercussions. Interpol decided on a clandestine approach rather than a highly publicized official prosecution and Patrick found himself packing another bag.

Once Patrick showed the town’s clerk the forged documentation establishing himself as the sole benefactor to a recently deceased resident, he moved into the aforementioned deceased’s home and began the slow process of becoming a Respected Member of the Community. Assimilation was much easier than he had expected. Neighbors were apprehensive at first but once he explained his fake situation and occupied his house they welcomed him with open arms. Whether it be bowling leagues, book clubs, or baking competitions, Patrick received sincere invitations to ingratiate himself to his assigned community.

And participate Patrick did, schmoozing and navigating the social circuit for months until his new citizen smell wore off. Patrick generally enjoyed the Flortonians. Sure their town wide citrus aversion and the strict ban on even medium levels of bass projection struck the agent as odd, but they were a more pleasant bunch than his usual criminal marks. The cleanliness was strange at first, but he quickly acclimated to the pristine conditions and rejoiced at the lack of flies, rodents, and spiders especially. And his new neighbors looked forward to nothing more than the Festival of Gratitude, the biggest holiday of the year where everyone shows gratitude for the town they call home.

Patrick decided on light blue oxford under a light wool jacket paired neatly with slacks and smart loafers. No sense in trying to make a statement on the one day everyone will look at you. After catching the 8:32 train at 8:32 and hopping off at Central Station, he felt the buzz of the festivities engulf him. Children waving flags, veterans in their dress uniforms, and politicians shaking hands were among the many merry makers comprising the annual festivities.

Patrick got himself a banana cream pie cup and made his way to the grandstands in hopes of securing decent viewing spot for the Florton Flyers annual tumbling demonstration. He caught up on gossip with neighbors he recognized and made small talk with friendly strangers as he traversed the festival grounds. He eventually came across a small woman in the general Florton government get up unenthusiastically checking each patron into the grounds.

“Number please.”

“Pardon?” inquired Patrick.

“What is your Gratitude Number?” repeated the woman, with a tad more interest in her cadence.

“I never received a number,” explained Patrick, “Do I need one to watch the festival? I promise I am a resident, I’ve been at 1958 Prone Street for the last five months”

The woman smiled.

“No, the town is currently blocked off to incoming traffic, ensuring all patrons here today are true Florton residents. You must not have received a number because they were sent out, I believe, six months ago? The Festival of Gratitude is for all Florton citizens, and our newest compatriots especially. Allow me to escort you to a special viewing box where you can truly experience all this grand day has to offer.”

This was the first time Patrick heard there was a special ritual for new residents, in any capacity. But if he had to suffer through a new citizen induction/callout/special ceremony to get a better seat for this hallowed event he was more than willing.

The section was empty when they arrived and the windows of the viewing box were closed, but the woman simply explained that he would join the other new residents shortly and he would be closer to the action than he could ever imagine. Patrick waited, listening to muffled crowd noises when he heard a loud rumble from the PA system. He couldn’t make out exactly what was being said, but he caught a few phrases like “eternal gratitude”, “vigilant defense”, and “purify our spirit.”

The box collapsing caught Patrick off guard. Realizing he was standing on a platform in full view of the entire Florton community surprised Patrick. The Giant Spider holding the microphone was likely the thing that terrified Patrick into a mute state.

“Now, we show our gratitude to our vigilant workers! Those who maintain the cleanliness, purity, and sanctity of our great community! They shall have their reward!”

Patrick momentarily recovered and almost managed to run, yell, or look for an exit when he felt the rumble beneath him. The planks quickly fell apart as the spiders rushed to claim their reward for a long year’s work.

The two agents sent to look for Patrick after his comms disengaged were unable to find any trace of their wayward comrade. Florton even allowed them their run of the town, an unprecedented move by the insular community, but it was no use. They couldn’t find a speck of evidence. It was too clean.

“That won’t do,” Patrick muttered as he tossed another shirt back into the closet. The Festival of Gratitude was today and citizens of Florton considered a sharp outfit as essential to the affair as banana cream pie and ceremonial gymnastics. Patrick considered himself a wily operator, having executed undercover assignments in a ildly different locales ranging from Zurich to Munich. However, he still felt he was missing something here.

Florton was a lively town that hummed with efficiency no matter where one looked. Trains arrived exactly on schedule and cars flowed through the streets in such coordination visitors wondered if the traffic lights were purely for decoration. And it was clean. Not in comparison to other cities or towns of similar populations. It was clean. Not a hair out of place, inside or outside, rich or poor, night or day. Just clean.

The agency told Patrick he would be investigating Florton five weeks after he completed a six month stint infiltrating a Vienna-based crime family. There were reports of travelers disappearing in the surrounding areas, and the insular town had been as uncooperative with investigations as they could be without facing legal repercussions. Interpol decided on a clandestine approach rather than a highly publicized official prosecution and Patrick found himself packing another bag.

Once Patrick showed the town’s clerk the forged documentation establishing himself as the sole benefactor to a recently deceased resident, he moved into the aforementioned deceased’s home and began the slow process of becoming a Respected Member of the Community. Assimilation was much easier than he had expected. Neighbors were apprehensive at first but once he explained his fake situation and occupied his house they welcomed him with open arms. Whether it be bowling leagues, book clubs, or baking competitions, Patrick received sincere invitations to ingratiate himself to his assigned community.

And participate Patrick did, schmoozing and navigating the social circuit for months until his new citizen smell wore off. Patrick generally enjoyed the Flortonians. Sure their town wide citrus aversion and the strict ban on even medium levels of bass projection struck the agent as odd, but they were a more pleasant bunch than his usual criminal marks. The cleanliness was strange at first, but he quickly acclimated to the pristine conditions and rejoiced at the lack of flies, rodents, and spiders especially. And his new neighbors looked forward to nothing more than the Festival of Gratitude, the biggest holiday of the year where everyone shows gratitude for the town they call home.

Patrick decided on light blue oxford under a light wool jacket paired neatly with slacks and smart loafers. No sense in trying to make a statement on the one day everyone will look at you. After catching the 8:32 train at 8:32 and hopping off at Central Station, he felt the buzz of the festivities engulf him. Children waving flags, veterans in their dress uniforms, and politicians shaking hands were among the many merry makers comprising the annual festivities.

Patrick got himself a banana cream pie cup and made his way to the grandstands in hopes of securing decent viewing spot for the Florton Flyers annual tumbling demonstration. He caught up on gossip with neighbors he recognized and made small talk with friendly strangers as he traversed the festival grounds. He eventually came across a small woman in the general Florton government get up unenthusiastically checking each patron into the grounds.

“Number please.”

“Pardon?” inquired Patrick.

“What is your Gratitude Number?” repeated the woman, with a tad more interest in her cadence.

“I never received a number,” explained Patrick, “Do I need one to watch the festival? I promise I am a resident, I’ve been at 1958 Prone Street for the last five months”

The woman smiled.

“No, the town is currently blocked off to incoming traffic, ensuring all patrons here today are true Florton residents. You must not have received a number because they were sent out, I believe, six months ago? The Festival of Gratitude is for all Florton citizens, and our newest compatriots especially. Allow me to escort you to a special viewing box where you can truly experience all this grand day has to offer.”

This was the first time Patrick heard there was a special ritual for new residents, in any capacity. But if he had to suffer through a new citizen induction/callout/special ceremony to get a better seat for this hallowed event he was more than willing.

The section was empty when they arrived and the windows of the viewing box were closed, but the woman simply explained that he would join the other new residents shortly and he would be closer to the action than he could ever imagine. Patrick waited, listening to muffled crowd noises when he heard a loud rumble from the PA system. He couldn’t make out exactly what was being said, but he caught a few phrases like “eternal gratitude”, “vigilant defense”, and “purify our spirit.”

The box collapsing caught Patrick off guard. Realizing he was standing on a platform in full view of the entire Florton community surprised Patrick. The Giant Spider holding the microphone was likely the thing that terrified Patrick into a mute state.

“Now, we show our gratitude to our vigilant workers! Those who maintain the cleanliness, purity, and sanctity of our great community! They shall have their reward!”

Patrick momentarily recovered and almost managed to run, yell, or look for an exit when he felt the rumble beneath him. The planks quickly fell apart as the spiders rushed to claim their reward for a long year’s work.

The two agents sent to look for Patrick after his comms disengaged were unable to find any trace of their wayward comrade. Florton even allowed them their run of the town, an unprecedented move by the insular community, but it was no use. They couldn’t find a speck of evidence. It was too clean.

“Order! Order! I will have order in this courtroom or by the powers vested in me by the great state of North Carolina I will hold every member of the gallery in contempt of court!”

As thankful as I was for the judge’s intervention, I wasn’t sure if any charges she could bring about in this manner would stick; the audience had reacted in as reasonable a manner as could be expected given the circumstances. My client, despite my desperate pleas to the contrary, decided to interject while prosecution detailed the excruciating pain experienced by the children who fell into the babbling brook near the local elementary school’s recess area. And subsequently insinuated their parents were the ones to blame for not warning their youngsters of the face-melting consequences inherent in creek merriment.

“It is well-known throughout the Xilongia System that swimming downstream of a Plonkar’s melting den will result in excruciating dismemberment, and you ingrates seem to desire nothing more than to extend the grave injustice younglings suffered at the hands of ineffective rearing by crucifying me for simply living my life in accordance with the ways established by my ancestors in the Long Before!”

I had always dreamed of becoming a lawyer, not necessarily for the high earning potential but so I could continue the time-honored tradition of standing up for those who the public deemed unworthy of the courtesy. Whether it be Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, or John Adams’ defense of a British spy in the American Revolution, I truly admired those who stuck their necks out to provide a proper and legitimate defense to the people society would rather hang without a second thought.

 

Upon graduating from law school at Campbell University in the middle of my class, I was ecstatic to get an offer to serve Gaston County as a public defender. Finally, I could put my years of decent academic performance to use and do some good in world wrought with injustice. My first case was a drunk who couldn’t comprehend why the person in front of him would stop on a freeway and proceeded to cause a five-car pileup. My second case involved a homeless man who tried to rob a convenience store in the hopes of being picked up and brought to the large building downtown where they served three meals a day. I had devised a clever cross-examination strategy to expose the exaggerations the shop-owner presented in order to collect more insurance money, but my client promptly bit my neck when he thought I may be jeopardizing his best shot at a roof over his head for the next 3-6 years.

I had higher hopes for my third case. The county clerk handed over the file when I checked in at the courthouse one brisk October morning. The deputy led me to the holding cell as I recited the disarming greeting I was working on to make my preppy, white-bread self more relatable to someone who spent their time on the wrong side of the law. I began and promptly choked on my spiel once I saw the defendant the county had left to the mercy of my legal acumen.

“Have you come to bring my exofloric replenishments? I’ve left the waste from my previous cycle in the crude container your comrades placed in the corner of my barbaric holding cell.”

My family always encouraged my aspirations, often saying that “Conrad has an argument and quick words for any situation, he should be up there telling those judges what’s what.” But I truly had no words for the scene laid before me. A pale, purple-skinned creature (creature was truly the most generous term I could think of here, believe me, I tried) was standing expectantly behind the door of the jail cell while hardened criminal types cowered in the corner, doing their damndest to put as much space between them and the putout abomination as possible.

“Uh… well… hello, are you” I went to check the file for the first time and found myself back in a first-grade classroom, leaning on my phonics skills to try to pronounce an unknown word, “Clee…mulpkon?”

“Cleemoulpkin Anfromp the Third mind you!” the little beast proclaimed, “Member of the renowned Anfromp family, Dukes of the Prile System for over 600 millennia!”

“Okay… Cleemoulpkin? May I call you that?” I asked hesitantly.

“You may, now will you please replenish my exoflorum? It’s been over forty florics since I’ve molted and the dryness is about to render me madder than a Gilpommer stranded on a Ywermon moon.”

I did not expect an alien to be my third case. I also did not expect such entitled behavior from the first extraterrestrial life form needing the services of a public defender.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do but I’ve been appointed by the authorities here to represent your interests in our judicial system,” I tried to explain, “You are being put on trial because you were found at the scene of an incident where several young people were found dismembered, can you explain to me how you came to this planet and what has transpired since you’ve been here?”

What followed was a much more reasonable explanation than I could have expected. Clee (I planned on using the nickname to gain some relatability points with the rural jury we were sure to face) told me his navigations fried out as he was passing through the Milky Way on his way to a cousin’s trading outpost some 500 light years from here. His autopilot disengaged and his smaller (but sporty and fashionable, Clee assured me) vehicle couldn’t course correct once caught in Earth’s orbit. He crashed into the forested terrain of southwestern North Carolina.

Clee’s species, or the Plonkar as he told me (never Plonky, that was their word), believed that misfortune can be reversed by a total cleansing. Therefore, Clee quickly found the nearest source of water and shed his skin in the first creek he found. He was observing the ceremonial post-shed meditation when an angry mob apprehended him and tossed him in the county jail to await imminent execution.

Personally, I thought Clee was an ass and, first contact or not, deserved some form of consequence for his flippant attitude towards planets and species he considered beneath him. However, these were the people (or Plonkar) I became a lawyer to help. I had a mission to defend the indefensible and wasn’t it just my luck that I had found a truly indefensible being.

The trial started with the state prosecuting the layup case in textbook fashion. Schoolchildren were disfigured, and who was to blame? A foreigner. And not even someone from Mexico, Europe, China, or even some Middle Eastern country. A foreigner to Earth. A literal illegal alien. The DA extended more effort stifling a shit-eating grin than she did building a case against the outsider.

After the smuggest “The prosecution rests, your honor” in North Carolina trial history, it was my turn. The defining moment in my career. I was going to get a shit head alien off on a child assault case, secure my place in the pantheon of American defense-lawyer folk heroes, and parlay this success into something greater. Mayor, Governor, Senator. Hell the 2040 elections seemed ripe for the taking.

Then Clee spoke up and my hopes crashed harder than his space Ferrari in a Carolina backwoods. He launched into a vicious tirade excoriating the children he dismembered, their parents, the humans who kept him in a jail cell, me (for all I thought we had reached an understanding), and the entire population of ignoramuses residing on this worthless rock. The members of the public, who had understandably packed the courtroom that day to watch the alien trial, threatened to turn into a mob before the judge calmed them down.

I quickly collected myself and started to deliver the courtroom monologue that would free Clee and launch my political career. But of course, that asshole alien spoke up and drove the final nails into his proverbial coffin.

“Savages all of you! I see now this primitive society can’t fathom the existence of such a superior being as the one I present before you today, and as such you seek to destroy it! Well go ahead! For I am Cleemoulpkin Anfromp the Third, esteemed member of Plorkian society! And the bells of my execution will ring as calls to war in my home world! Make peace with your false gods, for my final reckoning will be delivered by my comrades you insult by murdering their beloved Cleemoulpkin!”

The jury unanimously found Clee guilty. Scientists from Chapel Hill and Durham were brought in to study his anatomy as the alien struggled to escape his iron clad cuffs. The experts determined the alien’s eyes to be the most vulnerable spot on his body. Two weeks later, Clee cursed humanity in an incomprehensible language as two National Guard members lined up machine guns and unloaded their magazines into the intruder’s eye sockets. Clee’s remains were monitored for ten days before all present agreed to pronounce the abomination dead.

Two months later, a capsule careened from space and crashed five yards in front of the courthouse steps. I was invited to the secured opening procedure due to my involvement in Clee’s case. Several welders blasted the capsule with heat until it unceremoniously opened, revealing a note written in a surprisingly well understood English:

“Dear Inhabitants of Rock 9483-Sector KPO909.

We understand that a member of our species, one Cleemoulpkin Anfromp, inadvertently came to your “planet” some time ago and that you executed him for the Plonkarian practice of Exomoltation. The Plonkar Codes dictate that the proper retaliation would be to render your meager home a smoking pile of rubble.

However, we know how… difficult Cleemoulpkin is to be around, and for that reason our leaders heavily suggested he make the treacherous journey to a remote trading outpost. We sincerely apologize for subjecting your population to his bullshit, and understand the actions taken to rid your society of such a petulance.

We suggest that all move on as we had before, and that you forget our existence as we forget yours. And that we all thank our respective deities that no one will have to deal with Cleemoulpkin’s dumbass ever again.”

Chapter 1 Here

Chapter 2: The Sixth of His Name

Life fell back into a familiar routine after Millie committed regicide on the kitchen table. I finished my taxes, Millie diligently corrected the clock’s misinformation campaign around dinner time, and the remnants of Puckers’ last stand were cleaned up via a targeted application of baking soda, dish soap, and hydrogen peroxide. Millie brought home a few small birds and a lizard’s battered torso in the days that followed. I made sure to reward her with treats in addition to the celebratory pets, if only to try to steer her away from more fantastic conquests.

Despite the return to normalcy, it was hard to keep the incident with Puckers out of my head. And in fairness to myself, it would be crazy not to think about it. My cat captured the “King of the Fairies” and executed him without a second thought. I didn’t know that fairies existed in the real world, let alone that they had developed a hierarchical society governed by a monarch who claimed the divine right to rule.

There wasn’t much I could do with this new information. Should I tell the government about the existence of fairies? If I go to the UN, would they help ensure that the rightful ruler of Fairydom assumes his throne? I figured either of those scenarios likely ended with me getting a comfy new pair of slip-on shoes and a windowless room in a local institution, so moving on seemed like the best option.

And the bit at the end about his real heir. The fairies in tales I remembered from childhood advised fantasy heroes and engaged in general whimsy. I certainly couldn’t recall a story where a fairy queen tries to make a power move by passing off her own illegitimate children as her king’s. Puckers’ decision to directly challenge Millie and myself seemed reckless enough without knowing he had an unstable succession situation in his kingdom. I doubted the songs about Puckers would be nearly as flattering as he boldly proclaimed before my cat ended his reign with a single swipe.

The next Friday I sat on my couch drinking coffee after I gave Millie her morning kibble in the laundry room. My morning musings were interrupted by an almost clicking sound at the front door followed by a shrill bleat of something resembling a brass instrument. I instinctively shut the door to the laundry room so my furry security guard wouldn’t be tempted to go hunting for a fresher meal and opened the front door.

I knew that fairies could fly but seeing it firsthand was jarring. The only fairy I ever saw in the real world was incapacitated by my cat, and though he had wings they were not in any sort of functional condition. I instinctively went to swat what I assumed were some sort of flies or mosquitoes when the shrill bleat of a tiny trumpet stopped me in my tracks.

There were five fairies floating in my entrance way. The two fairies responsible for the tiny trumpet bursts wore blue and gray outfits with striking red beret-type caps. The pair of fairies decked out in sleek black armor appeared to be scanning the interior of my house for threats (as though I didn’t represent any sort of danger to the party).

The last fairy captured my interest. He looked familiar. His armor, uncolored and unassuming at first glance, was clearly of high quality and so well polished that it reflected the glint of the morning sun directly into my eyes. As I averted my gaze, he unleashed a triumphant guffaw that was deep enough to sound almost like normal laughter to my human-sized ears. One of the trumpet fairies cleared his throat and began to speak.

“Hear ye hear ye! You stand in the presence of Frumple the Vanquisher! Sixth of his name, High General of the Royal Fairy Armies, Slayer of the Last Dragonfly, Scourge of the Gumdrop Hills, Brother of King Puckers the Strong, fourth of his name, and rightful Jarl of the Flower Clans, Prince of the Prancers, Sultan of the Sunflower Tribes, and King of all Fairydom!”

“Enough with the titles!” Frumple bellowed, preemptively interrupting any response that was beginning to form on my tongue, “I come here on a divine quest of vengeance! My brother the king was brought down by whatever dark magic and dishonorable means are employed in these lands and I mean to deliver justice to his killer!”

“Well, your highness,” I started, guessing at the proper way to address a royal fairy in an attempt to take a more diplomatic approach to this fairy encounter, “your royal brother’s death was certainly regretful and not at all something we had intended…”

“I have no quarrel with you giant!” declared Frumple, “You are clearly bound to the will of your master, and there is no shame in obeying the commands of your liege. It is he who I come to bring to justice! In fact, I would welcome you to my court once the shameful manner of my brother’s assassination is rectified.”

“My master?” I asked despite having a decent suspicion of who Frumple was looking for.

“Yes the megapanther! Clearly he has brought you under his control with the same dark magic he used to murder our valiant King!”

“Well she, and honestly dark magic is as good an explanation as any for Millie’s behavior sometimes…”

“No matter! I come to challenge your master to a duel! No magic, no tricks, just a fight to the death as it was in the old days!”

The dead king’s brother ventured to my front door to challenge my cat to a fight to the death, hoping to avenge his brother’s death and acquire the services of a subservient giant. Now that I had a decent look at him, I could see the familial resemblance between Frumple and Puckers. The main differentiator here being Frumple had a large muscular frame that wouldn’t be out of place in an NFL locker room or a body building competition. Assuming he was human sized. Which he wasn’t. He had the approximate proportions of four rolls of quarters tied together with a rubberband.

I was pretty sure Millie could still take him, but wanted to make sure I understood the terms we were agreeing to here.

“When you say no magic and no tricks, can you be more specific?” I asked as innocently as I could to the bloodthirsty bite-sized royal claimant.

“Of course simple giant! When I say no magic, I mean no casting spells on your opponents to render them incapacitated, subservient, or otherwise incapable of using their physical strength! And when I say no tricks, I mean no ambushes, no teleporting the combatants to a different realm, no bargains with dark spirits to gain an unfair advantage, you know the usual! What I am challenging your master to is a clean fight to the death, fairo a fairo, so my brother can find some peace in death after your liege underhandedly killed him before his time.”

Frumple seemed sincere in both his justified desire to avenge his brother’s death and his unjustified belief that he would be successful. I considered finding some way to talk him out of his suicide mission, but the “simple giant” remark left a sour taste in my mouth and I figured Millie could put a quick end to this.

“Very well,” I declared with as much weight I could muster behind my voice, “I will lead you to my master’s lair, and you may consider the combat to begin as soon as you enter his chambers.”

“Excellent!” proclaimed Frumple. “Hicklelick, pour the good ale now so we can savor a proper toast to justice once this devil is dealt with!”

The herald I assumed had the misfortune to be named Hicklelick rushed to find a casket among the supplies the fairies had brought on their doomed journey as I led the remaining members of the party inside. The guards and remaining herald did their best not to gawk at the giant sized appliances, housewares, and decorations I had accumulated throughout my twenties. I was tempted to call my ex-girlfriend to tell her I had in fact found someone who thought my Tame Impala 2013 Tour Poster was worthy of admiration, no matter that it was the largest piece of artwork these fun-sized courtiers had ever seen.

Frumple maintained an inspired focus as we approached the laundry room. I couldn’t help but admire his devotion to his older brother, jackass that he was, and felt a bit sorry for leading him to a certain death. I opened the door, and Frumple did not hesitate before bursting into the room with a defiant roar.

“Foul beast! Nothing you can do can save you from my righteous fury! Prepare to pay for your crimes against Fairydom!”

Millie had been investigating the bottom of her food bowl while I did my best to welcome the foreign delegation hellbent on taking her life in the name of revenge. Just as she began to accept that there was no more breakfast and her roommate was yet again proving incapable of providing enough food to go around, she saw the bird-looking creature flying towards her.

Her prey usually tried to put as much distance between themselves and Millie as possible, so seeing a bird flying towards her with malicious intent momentarily confused the master hunter. Momentarily being the key here, because she quickly regrouped and swatted the intruder out of the air with a well timed swipe. The creature scrambled to reorient and go for another attack, but Millie quickly pinned its wings with her claws. She looked at her newest catch, trying to decide whether to eat it now or share with her inept companion when she was rudely lifted by her scruff and placed on the washing machine.

I knew Millie had landed a fatal blow on her first try and decided to grant Frumple the small mercy of not being toyed to death by z sadistic cat and let him die with some dignity. I placed him on the mantle I usually reserved for laundry detergent and dryer sheets. As I tried to think of the best way to dispose of another royal fairy corpse in my house, I heard a cough and looked at Frumple as he began to accept his fate.

“Damnation, I should have known that beast would be a worthy opponent. I retract my prior accusations of trickery and dark magic, your master is a true warrior and I’m grateful she gave me the warrior’s death I always dreamed of.”

I really should have kept my mouth shut and stayed out of this, but Puckers’ last plea came to mind. “Frumple, why did you claim to be your brother’s heir? He told us he had children with his queen?”

“Bah do you mean Binky? I never thought my brother was the most observant man in the realm but there’s no way he could have believed that devil woman’s spawn came from his seed.”

“He didn’t, he told me at the end that Binky was not his true heir.”

“So he did know, why would he not confide in me? Why was I stuck with no other option to keep the throne within our family but to try to defeat an unconquerable foe?”

“Was that really the only option? What about taking the throne itself and disposing of the false heir directly?”

“Don’t you know anything about the Fairydom? Binky’s mother’s family controls three quarters of the royal army and every capitol guard her father could hit with a sack of silver, trying to take the capitol would have been an assured death.”

“Whereas trying to kill my cat...”

“Yes, yes, now I know that was also destined to end in my downfall, but at least this way I got to go out fighting a beast of legend rather than fall to some nameless guard who happened to be the one to put a sword through me while I tried to hold off ten of his comrades.”

Frumple looked to the Hicklelick, and more specifically the ale he was holding, and looked back at me with an expression oddly reminiscent of Puckers’ final moments.

“Would you mind if I asked you for three boons? One, let my companions leave this lair unharmed, they have done you no harm. Two, let Hicklelick bring me the ale I requested earlier. Three, leave me to die in peace with my ale and my memories, our family is doomed, my brother left no heir of his body, and I have no faith in any of our other relatives to pick up the mantle and be the leader the realm needs.”

I nodded, let the oddly-named herald bring his liege his final request, and moved to give the fallen prince his much needed rest. But I had to turn back and offer him a final parting courtesy.

“Does the name Dilly mean anything to you?”

“Not particularly, why?”

“Puckers told me he had an heir. A lad named Dilly, that’s all he could say before he passed on.”

“Ah well, if he had trusted me enough with matters of succession I could have found the boy and given a proper attempt at regaining the throne. It’s out of my hands now. I pity the lad, he’ll have a rough go of it. Probably for the best he stays out of sight and doesn’t find himself with a crown shaped target on his head.”

Millie licked her paw and went back to inspecting the food bowl for any new breakfast provisions that may have come about while her roommate was talking with the bird. He really was hopeless, she had served him up a fresh meal and he decided to talk with it and wrap it in a nearby cloth before letting the other birds out the front door. Someday she would get him to understand the importance of hunting and bringing home enough food to keep everyone satisfied. Someday.

Millie was a uniquely opiniated cat who never hesitated to take matters into her own paws when needed. If I unthinkingly left a pen on the kitchen table to take a smoke break while doing my taxes, Millie was there to rectify the situation and push the writing utensil onto the floor where it belonged. She quickly let me know every time the clock tried to pull a fast one and displayed a time a full two hours before dinner. But the opinion she held the most steadfastly was that I was a terrible hunter and it fell to her to guard me and provide our small clowder with vanquished prey.

Millie’s first unlucky victims were mainly comprised of mice and other small rodents. I likely should have intervened here, but the apartment we were in was riddled with vermin and the apex-predator deterrent was cheaper than any sort of professional service I could call in. I would reward our friendly neighborhood pest-control with pets and throw on three pairs of gloves to dispose of her latest conquest.

My big promotion came with a big upgrade in living situations, and I thought the lack of mice would curb Millie’s nascent hunting habit. Millie, however, decided to expand her reign of terror to other species. The charming songbirds that provided a soothing soundtrack to our suburban abode quickly found themselves forever silenced by the new feline assassin that patrolled the neighborhood. Millie even managed to take down a smaller squirrel that wandered too close to her ever-expanding territory. I’d seen Millie be self-satisfied, one or two times I would have even described her as smug, but that was the first time I’ve ever seen a cocky cat.

I was resigned to my furry little friend’s genocidal tendencies. I considered moving again to get us a fresh start in our relationship with the surrounding animal communities, but decided against subjecting another set of unsuspecting critters to Millie’s extreme form of population control. Surely she would grow bored of the game, or force a rapid onset of antipredator adaptation amongst the surviving wildlife in the area. Either way, I figured my days of tossing dead animals in the garbage to be numbered, and I tried to explain that to the HOA when they correctly deduced that my garbage cans were the ones attracting raccoons hoping to score a freshly killed dinner.

That Tuesday started like any other. I indulged in my morning ritual of three cups of coffee, a protein bar, and a healthy dose of doom scrolling. A loud thump interrupted the video I was half-watching of a man standing shirtless in a grocery store explaining how strawberries were poisoning us with antinutrients. Glad to be getting this out of the way early, I grabbed the last three pairs of gloves from the cabinet and went to give some unfortunate animal its last rites.

The routine Millie and I established generally started with her proudly meowing at me with an incapacitated, if not dead, victim at her feet. I’d take it from her, give her the pet she learned to associate with murder, and toss it in the outside garbage. But this morning, she still had her target pinned to the floor and would not let go. I went in for a closer look. Before I could see what she caught a shrill voice pierced through the morning air.

“Unhand me at once savage beast! You profane the very gods themselves by attacking their earthly vessel!”

I picked Mill up by the scruff to reveal a winged man the size of a pill bottle. He was richly adorned in a silk robe, an elaborately stitched doublet, and a markedly shiny golden crown. His legs were broken in the assault, and his left wing was hanging on by a thread (or a string or however one would describe the base unit of a wing). I carefully picked him up and brought him into the kitchen.

“Oh how the gods test their king! Were my Trials of Fortitude not enough to prove my worth as their chosen one? Must I now slay the megapanther and his giant ally to earn your satisfaction?”  cried the king.

I had planned to try to bring some reason into this encounter with a fairy king by apologizing for my cat’s indiscretion, but the assured quality in the king’s voice as he vowed to vanquish my cat and me threw me for a loop.

“You seem pretty confident for a toy-sized nepo baby with a few broken appendages,” I taunted, “What makes you think you’d still be breathing if I let Millie finish what she started?” Any contrite feelings I had about verbally threatening what was functionally a broken Funko Pop disappeared when Millie accentuated my point with a ferocious meow. Finally, we were on the same team.

“What makes you think you two abominations are any match for Puckers the Strong, fourth of his name, ordained in the name of the almighty god Sweetdrop, Jarl of the Flower Clans, Prince of the Prancers, Sultan of the Sunflower Tribes, and King of all Fairydom??” declared the miniscule monarch, puffing himself up to an intimidating extra centimeter in height.

“When I was just a wee lad”

“You’re still pretty wee”

“WHEN I WAS JUST A WEE LAD I VANQUISHED THE MIGHTY HOPPING BEAST! I BESTED BUTTERS THE BOLD IN SINGLE COMBAT! IT IS MY DESTINY TO FULFILL THE PROPHECY AND BRING A NEW GOLDEN AGE TO ALL FAIRYKIND! YOU MONSTERS WILL BE JUST ANOTHER PASSAGE IN THE GLORIOUS SONGS OUR GRANDCHILDREN’S GRANDCHILDREN WILL SING ABOUT MY BLESSED RUL”

California state law prohibits declawing cats, and Millie took full advantage of the policy by delivering a precise swipe to Puckers’ jugular. The royal monologue ceased as a surprising amount of blood spurted onto the kitchen table, and the prophesized savior staggered and fell next to a 1099-B form. I saw Puckers facial expression morph from shock, to anger, to resigned acceptance, and finally genuine fear and concern as the broken king composed his final plea.

“Whatever gods haven’t forsaken me, please hear me! Do not let Prince Binky take the throne! His mother made a cuckold of me, he has not my blood! Find the true heir of the sacred bloodline, find young Dilly and give him the strength and wisdom to take the throne and lead fairies to salvation!”

Millie and I looked at each other. If she felt any remorse for assassinating a head of state and potentially triggering a violent succession crisis in his wake, she did not show it. She merely licked the offending paw, and loudly reminded me of her well earned scratches. I absent mindedly obliged and made a mental note to pick up some paper towels when I went to grab more gloves at the store later.

Hey All,

Looking for honest feedback on a short story I wrote from a prompt in r/WritingPrompts . Any and all comments are appreciated!

Prompt: It was an elaborate scam, cryogenics. A way to launder rich fools' money, presented just strong enough to make it plausible you could be frozen away for a long while, and persevere. Nobody wakes up from their cryosleep chamber. Nobody should wake up years in advance like this… and yet, you did.

Story:

Goddammit I have to piss like a fucking racehorse.

And much like the subject of the first metaphor the former head of Generative Workforce Reduction for PriceWaterhouseAnthropic had evoked in over 700 years, piss Kyle did.  Many assume the experience of emptying one’s bladder for the first time in several centuries to be a similar if not more intense version of finally catching a rest-stop in the middle of nowhere on a long road trip and unloading what had been corked up for hours at this point. Many would be mistaken as the unused, unobserved, and untreated bladder, urinary tract, and prostate needed a few dry runs to resume operational statuses.

After an uncomfortable nine minutes of stop and go release, Kyle felt immense embarrassment at having lost control over his bodily functions. And, as befitting a man who spent dozens of years climbing social and corporate ladders, that embarrassment quickly morphed into an immense wrath directed at his subordinates.

What in the hell is Devan doing? I specifically requested all my l’aventure 2022 blend pours be cut with grapefruit juice and a waiter to alert me to an unavoidable yet urgent call every 45 minutes so I could attend to unprofessional bodily functions far away from the other vultures I have to call peers.

Kyle turned to his left to berate his ungrateful and unpaid assistant, but he couldn’t. Not that he didn’t have the right words in his arsenal to send Devan sulking back to the professional managerial class he grew up in, but he couldn’t turn left. Nor right. Nor anywhere save from straight forward towards the fogged glass.

He now realized he was facing fogged glass, not the after blur from waking up post bender. And Kyle could be forgiven for his assumption given his extensive relationship with the latter situation. Two rolodexes granted Kyle his ascent into “Master of the Universe”: one for his clients and one for his dealers. Kyle’s ill-gotten book of business got him into the bottom floor of the VC powerhouse Lawrence and Creighton. But he soon realized that the higher he could get his partners, the higher his floor. It was on a 38^(th) floor where Kyle stared out at the Bay one cold July morning. He had been fixated on Alcatraz Island and wondering how many of the Tenderloin’s non-productive types could be stored there until a proper storm could pave the way for new condos when he felt a pain jolt down his left arm and

Oh. I died.

Thirteen minutes after regaining consciousness Kyle remembered his death. He had screamed and cried and writhed around the Tibetan Tiger rug in his office calling the names of every subordinate he knew to get their attention. But neither of them showed up. He died two minutes later, a full half an hour before anyone noticed his absence.

Vienna wanted to be buried in that family plot in Arroyo Grande.

Cancer has a way of showing up exactly where it isn’t wanted. Full libraries could be filled with devastating examples of unwilling hosts, but Kyle’s young wife’s lungs were the only vessels Kyle could ever bring himself to care about. This wasn’t a rival associate with an opposing corner office, or a pesky union trying to cut into his company’s bottom line; those could be defeated or intimidated or incentivized to settle. Try as he might, Kyle couldn’t get a hold of cancer’s representation to make it an offer it couldn’t refuse. Vienna’s final hours were spent in a tranquil state of acceptance, doing her best to comfort her ambitious but loving husband and trying to redirect his ire at the medical staff towards appreciation for the great times they had shared. She died knowing the love of her husband, selfishly leaving a broken man with the directive to let her go.

Maybe there could have been a world where Kyle moved on. Where the 28-year-old widower could have picked himself up and not become permanently jaded at a world that would end such a perfect union after 18 short months. That world could have even had room for the formation of the CryoMe company in some capacity, potentially even a profitable one. But the world where Kyle lost his wife, attempted to drink away his pain at Aunt Charlie’s (he unknowingly took Vienna to a drag brunch there as a second date, and the lounge had remained a staple/inside joke for the couple ever since), and showed such flippant disregard for his own life that he would rather take public transit than black car back to his home, CryoMe ran its first advertisement at the Market/5^(th) stop.

Layoffs are final, death doesn’t have to be. Passing on is the new PTO with CryoMe

Kyle built his chops negotiating deals with the Bay Area elite, honing skills that would make him a terror for any Berkeley dropout looking to flip their vibe coded passion project into generational wealth. The sales director/principal backend engineer/Chief Growth Officer of CryoMe didn’t stand a chance when he marched into their office and secured he and his wife prime spots in the first release of their “Cryochill” retirement plots. Kyle ignored the calls, texts, emails, and even letters from Vienna’s family requesting her remains be sent back to rest in peace. Why should she get to rest when he couldn’t?

A large red button stood out among the capsule’s interior. Kyle felt an acute sense of relief when the capsule opened and his straps were unhooked. After taking a minute or two to recover from the immense head rush, he rushed to check the other capsules in his surrounding area. Much to his chagrin, Vienna’s final resting place was cattycorner to his rather than directly adjacent, something he would have to take up with the prompt engineer dumb enough to direct an agentic program against his wishes.

The first thing he noticed about Vienna’s capsule was her hair. It was still a gorgeous sheen of amber, providing a striking contrast against the dull gray material. The next thing he noticed was the lack of power. He pulled against the levers to open it, but there was no use. Kyle didn’t need to feel for a pulse, he knew his wife had died a second time.

Not that it mattered to him, but Kyle soon realized he was the only survivor in this pod. In fact, he was the only sentient thing present. He walked through doors marked secure with marked ease, only to find nobody waiting for him on the other side. He looked out the windows of his long-term abode and barely recognized the streets of the Financial District below him. Red state media always liked to paint the streets of SF as bombed out and disastrous in his time, but Kyle never realized how far off they actually could be.

Alcatraz Island still stood, and with it the thought of potential holdouts of civilization entered Kyle’s head. Pushing the glass of a nearby window out, Kyle considered his path to this moment and the throats he stepped on to achieve this endgame. Something resembling guilt may have made its way into his registrar, but it was too late to deal with that. Vienna was gone, for good this time. And that was enough. The thought of reaching the top soothed Kyle as gravity took control and the man who climbed the world was forcibly laid to rest on a broken sidewalk.