Short stories

Royal Shit

Royal Shit. Good stinking shit. Hunger. And now that I am King and this is my Kingdom all the shit is mine. What is shit? Dead blood mostly. I’ve seen a lot of yummy blood today. One of the best. I don’t know what happened before but I watched Edgar murder Edmund. Hunger. I know them all. I’ve known them for years. I’ve watched them grow. Eat. Drink. Piss. Shit. Shared their food. Shared their drink. Even dined off a few. Even enjoyed their Royal turds. I cheered when Edgar killed Edmund. The bastard deserved it. Lovely shit though. Tasty. And the King. He was a fool. Three BIG mistakes.  I am too clever for that. Yes, I have been the lover of numerous ladies. I have been very busy. Oh yes. I am the father of trillions. Maybe more. And each one I have produced is sent packing without so much has a goodbye. That’s the way to do it. No mistakes. Hunger. Edgar killed Edmund and then somebody shouted that Gloucester was dead but I knew before the crowd. It was in the air. The bastard was rotting before he hit the ground. And then Goneril poisoned Regan. How did I know. I am nobody’s fool. I knew. I smelt the poison. Almonds. Reeked it did. Strong stuff. Deadly. I said to myself I’ll keep away from her and her polluted body. Almonds. Awful. Hunger. Living here you have to be on your toes. And then Goneril was dead. I smelt the body. Perfume swirling in the air. Perfume always fails to hide debauchery. She was a dirty cow with a stinking hole. Oh, what a lovely hole. And then Cordelia was executed. I didn’t see the act but Oh that sweet youth smell that tender skin those unblemished insides. Oh boy. I wept. Not wept. Cheered. Not cheered. Tears of joy. Hunger. Poor Cordelia. Virgin till the end. I promise I will worship you. Each morsel I will praise. You I will not deflower.  Hunger. And then it happened. Hunger. The Old King ranted and raved and farted – peppery – and then he dropped down dead. Dead. Oh, quaff that air. A majestic reek fills the air now. Euphoric I am. My belly demands. I have a King’s hole that needs to be filled. I am King Fly. The big Fly. The Superfly. I will see you during the post-prandial orgy vomit. Hunger is a bad metaphor for life but it is followed by a wonderful metaphor for living – a good shit. Here goes! Time for 

John Breightmet  

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