He made the most beautiful speeches, King Bob did. Colourful, powerful speeches, usually emphasizing the importance of teamwork. And how, as a team, everyone must agree with him completely. Anyone who failed to agree was obviously not a team player, and was treated accordingly. Honesty was also a popular speech topic of the Nice King. If someone was aware that, say, his mother for instance wasn't a team player, and didn't inform on her, he certainly couldn't be considered honest, and was therefore executed. Normally, the dishonest chap and his unsportsmanlike mum would be hanged together at a special double ceremony. The king was not one to waste time or manpower. Naturally, everyone thought that that was very good of him. Very good indeed.

Since assuming the monarchy, after the untimely accident that felled Swell King Jack some years earlier, the island state under Nice King Bob had a political uniformity that would create envy in the most power hungry psychotic.

It was among the saddest days in Perfektian history when Swell King Jack bit it. Nice King Bob remembered it well as he had been Jack's security chief. It was a hot July afternoon. The two had been discussing new military manoeuvres against the island of Brockley, Perfektia's nearest and most despised neighbour, when Swell King Jack suddenly entertained the notion that maybe Brockley wasn't so bad after all and couldn't they all just be pals.

It was that very same day, coincidentally enough, that he was ruthlessly assassinated while peacefully and pleasantly defecating in his private bathroom. Shells from three rifles, a shotgun, and two pistols were found at the scene, along with a blood stained hammer, Bob's wallet, and the rusty machete that was used to decapitate him.

The lone assassin, a palace cleaning lady, was quickly apprehended and had her tongue immediately cut out with tin snips to prevent her from telling fibs at her trial. Shocking evidence surfaced during the course of the trial: it was proven beyond a reasonable doubt that she had had close ties to the Brocklian Secret Police. The judge, always conscious of fairness and all that, graciously offered her permission to defend herself against the allegations, but she didn't deny them, thus proving her guilt to all. As former security chief and newly crowned king, Nice Bob had her hanged after her conviction of unsportsmanlike conduct. As a special treat for the families in attendance, she was also burnt as a witch. For only a witch, it was reasoned, could conjure up the magic bullets that entered the King's body from seventeen separate angles.

During a press conference later in the day, an eager young reporter asked Nice King Bob of his whereabouts during the crime. Bob openly admitted that he didn't recall, and immediately had the young man drowned in a public ceremony for straying from the topic. Which was largely considered very good of the king indeed.

The military posters plastered everywhere all over the island did not escape the watchful eye of Harold H. Daisy, not for too long anyway. He could see no reason not to take his country up on their generous offer to "see the world and get paid a whole lot to do very little". Being very fond of doing little, Harold enlisted in the Perfektian Great Army. He was soon disillusioned with the PGA though. Granted, he did do little, but he was yet to be paid a cent for his eight months of dedicated service. He was posted to sentry duty on the southern shore of Brockley where the Perfektians had long ago established a military base. Harold knew astonishingly little about his country's dispute with Brockley, and yet managed to care even less. He was aware, however, that the enemy island was overrun with the devil fruit known as grapes, and that the island's evil king used his enslaven masses to jump on these grapes all day and all night with their dirty foreign bare feet in order to produce wine. The wine was then smuggled across to Perfektia where it was sold on the black market at many times it's value.

That much was common knowledge. Only the privileged servicemen of the PGA were informed that the wine was being used to intoxicate as many good Perfektians as possible in order to weaken the country's defences and leave it ripe for invasion. This was why Brockley must be held at bay and, if luck would have it, conquered. Harold had tried the devil juice once as a teenager. Like most things, he didn't particulatly care for it.

In his sentry hut, Harold sat cleaning his rifle and occasionally picking black stuff from between his toe nails which protruded through both his woollen sock and leather boot. He had inherited the sock from his deceased father. The boot, along with a vaguely similar one, was generously supplied by the PGA. As he sat there, he dreamt up ingenious ways to have his rifle cleaned automatically. He was always dreaming up ways to have things done automatically, but his labour saving devices never came into existence, as he could never figure out a way to have them automatically created.

Harold's older brother, Henry, had given him the other sock. It had no holes. His oldest brother, Hektor, was given the honour of wearing his father's boots. Both of them. Mr. Daisy had had eight children including Harold. A modest number compared to many other Perfektian families. When Nice King Bob assumed the throne, he encouraged couples to have as many children as they could to help create a mighty army that would eventually be used to combat the threatening forces of Brockley. The fourth son of each family was to be worth a hundred dollars. Two hundred for the fifth son, and so on. For ten years King Bob promised the money was forthcoming, but eventually the people forgot as they were kept busy raising up to fifteen or more children. Harold had been born during this boom but, being only the third son, he would have been worthless any way. As a result of this baby blitz, Perfektia was now swamped with ragged and hungry youths desperately seeking ways to survive. Many did indeed join Nice King Bob's PGA.

* * *

Harold was small but not conspicuously short. And he was chubby but not noticeably fat. He was fairly ugly too but it wasn't immediately apparent. As a matter of fact, Harold was damn near invisible, even to himself. He would sometimes be startled to realize that he was in a room with himself.

That's why he enjoyed his little sentry hut; it was far too small to forget he was in there with him. As luck would have it, he was in his little hut with himself on the morning destiny grabbed him unceremoniously by the scrotum and thrust him into the national spotlight.

Nice King Bob sat in conference with his trusted aide and security advisor, Oliver Wimms. The king's wine stained brow was heavily creased as General Wimms nervously relayed the latest bad news from the front. "Evil King Maxwell has offered to release all six hundred Perfektian POWs presently in his custody in exchange for, well, nothing whatsoever. Word is, he'd be happy if you'd release some of his, too, but says it's ok if you don't want to." General Wimms finished reading the grim report and looked silently to his king. King Bob eventually met his gaze. "Well what do you want me to do, Wimms? Cart-fucking-wheels?" "No, Your Goodness."

Tapping his chubby ring laden fingers on the oak conference table, Bob considered the angles. "In what way could it benefit me to have his men released?" he asked slyly. Wimms appeared surprised. "Um, we can't release any, Sir. We killed them all." "Well then tell Maxwell to shove his offer up his ass. Now, is there any other business to discuss, Wimms, or are you still here just for the idle chit fucking chat?" Bob glared at his confidant. "No, Sir. Um, yes, Sir. I think we should implement Operation Satan without further adieu, Sir." "Which one is that?" "The one where we accidentally leak the rumour that several PGA troops caught a glimpse of Maxwell's underground palace, complete with fire and brimstone and tortured souls." Wimms couldn't stifle the girlish giggle that rose in his throat, "Proving once and for all that Evil King Maxwell is, indeed, Satan." "Will the idiots buys it?' the king asked cautiously. "No, Sir. They have no money. But they're starving so they'll eat it up." "Alright," Bob responded absently, "Implement Operation Satan. Now fuck off."

General Wimms hastily left the chambers without further comment. Nice King Bob sat alone playing with his belly button for several minutes before meandering down to his secret wine cellar to get secretly shit faced. He was such a happy little king.

Just had just spilled his drink while absently day dreaming. Day dreaming of being king. It may have been an act punishable by death, but he didn't care. He was a rebel. Someday, he would never have to sweep another factory floor. Someday, he would marry the beautiful Abigail Aberkrombie. Someday Just Manley would be the ruler of Perfektia and justice would prevail throughout the land. Someday. But not today. Today, Just had to sweep the floor he had to sweep for fourteen hours everyday of his life. Just, being the youngest of eleven children, had learned early on if you want something you had fight like a bastard to get it . And, luckily enough, Just was a bastard.

His father had been a travelling playing card salesman who serviced Just's mother one night after a particularly shameless session of strip pinochle and was never heard from again. At least, that's what his mum told him, but Just was convinced that his dad had really been a visiting nobleman who needed to protect his integrity by screwing off as soon as he realized that the woman he had impregnated was a mere working class slut. When Just became king, he would locate his father and grant him the high political post he so richly deserved.

From through the weaving of her loom, Abigail Aberkrombie could see Just on his hands and knees cleaning up someone's spilled drink. The sweat beading on his rustic and relatively unblemished forehead; his muscular arms flexing with every wipe of the cloth; his adorable little hinie tensing in rhythm... Abigail's legs quivered. This was the man who would fulfil her needs.

Of all the boys in the factory, of all the boys anywhere, she felt that Just had the most to offer her. Sure, she could easily manipulate any boy with her raw uncompromising sexuality, but Just seemed to have the drive to go places. She would make sure he did. And if she had to endure night after gruelling night in bed with him to do it, then so be it. Her legs quivered once more.

As security chief under Swell King Jack, Bob had taken as his wife, the Lady Margaret Maria Victoria de Havelinde of the House of Prescott. Of course, when Bob rose to the throne, as is tradition, she gave up her title, her surname, her forename, middle name, and everything else that could possibly be misconstrued as allowing her a separate identity of her own. She was henceforth called Queen Bob and she carried the name with dignity.

Queen Bob and Nice King Bob regretfully only bore one child, and what a regretful child he was. He was the lonely Prince Peter. Although his mother brought him many children to play with, he remained sombre most of his days. If he had known the children were starved and beaten for not pleasing him, the good prince would at least have let on he was happy, but he was oblivious to the brutality around him.

He wrote poetry, the prince did, but no one ever understood it. Alas, his very thoughts and, in fact, deeds always met with the same misunderstandings, leaving the poor boy even sadder and more detached from the world with each passing day.

At eighteen years of age, Prince Peter the Misunderstood, had never given up his quest to be recognised as someone of important stature - or at least someone who wasn't a rambling basket case. "I wrote a new poem, Mummy," he said as Queen Bob entered his chambers. "That's a good boy, Peter," his mother replied, "Why don't you have the court printer publish it and I'll see to it that everyone in the kingdom likes it," she offered tenderly. Prince Peter sighed his despondent little sigh, and whined, "But I don't want it published, Mummy. I just want you to read it." Now it was the Queen's turn to sigh. She manoeuvred her considerable bulk over to the prince's bed, and plopped down heavily beside him. "Very well then. Let's see it." Enthusiastically, Peter handed her his work, and she read it aloud:

"Passively, gingerly, the clouds roll in
The sky, closing, regrets the intrusion
The rain - it falls - the puddles they form
The people - they cry - The Storm! The Storm!
and the starless night weeps yet more"

Queen Bob set the paper down and feigned sincerity. "Oh! Another one about the weather. That's very good, Dear!" "No, no, Mummy. It's about God, not the weather. They're never about the bloody weather!" he exclaimed defeatedly. "Now, don't get nasty with your mother, Dear. It's a very nice God poem. It really is." As Queen Bob left, Prince Peter the Misunderstood flopped across his king size bed, covered his dark sunken eyes with his thin pale arm and wept.

* * *

After cheering up her son, Queen Bob continued on her way to the King's Court where she was scheduled to pass sentence on a convicted sex offender. All rose when she entered, save the defendant who could see no point in being polite at this point. All convicted sex perverts (who were all the ones ever tried), were handed the same sentence whether they were polite or not. The Crown prosecutor rushed over to the filthy degenerate and roughly pulled him to his unworthy feet.

"Show some respect, you vermin!" he hissed, "This is your Queen!" The lad, yet to reach his twentieth year, laughed defiantly. "Queen Bob is like a man dressed up," he rudely replied. The barrister was incredulous and subsequently swallowed his gum.

"A very fat and ugly man'" the youth concluded. "You're not making this any easier on yourself," the lawyer finally managed. "Or worse," he retorted, "You skinny little stiff-arsed son-of-a-bitch'" he added as an afterthought. The judge, spared this vulgarity, bowed to the Queen as she approached his bench, and removed himself from the room. Queen Bob slowly made her way to the bench, allowing those in attendance to gaze longingly upon her.

Gracefully, she planted herself in the massive oak chair that the judge had warmed for her, glanced from the convict to the attorney and asked, "What are the facts in this case, Mr. Prosecutor?" The lawyer, still wondering how the pervert had known his mother, regained his composure and supplied the undisputed evidence that led to the boy's conviction. "Your Graciousness," he began officially, "Mr. Flinkbottum here has been found guilty beyond doubt of sexual perversity." He cleared his throat timidly and randomly shuffled some papers before continuing. "On the day in question - this morning, Mr. Flinkbottum was buying an apple from Mr. Samuel Yates' fruit stand in the main promenade." At this point, Mr. Yates rose from his pew long enough to win a glance from the queen, looked disgustedly at the accused for effect, and sat down again, overtly proud that he had done his part to help make Perfektia a better place. The prosecutor continued.

"The respectable Mr. Yates was busy relieving himself at the time,". (At the mention of his name, Mr. Yates rose again momentarily and this time, smiled confidently at Queen Bob.) "so his lovely and innocent teenage daughter, Virginia, performed the transaction." The courtroom was deadly silent as the crowd listened to the story exactly how it had been recounted to the judge minutes earlier. Queen Bob's gaze never left the face of the criminal Flinkbottum as she listened intently. Flinkbottum, blatantly aware of her icy stare, tried desparately to disappear into his ragged clothing, but was sadly unsuccessful.

"As the young Miss Yates naively tried to collect the coins for the fruit that her family had toiled to produce and bring to market, this scoundrel Flinkbottum..." he paused here as if the following details were too hideous to relate before the First Lady. Then he continued: "This... this fiend... touched Miss Yates' left palm with his right pinky finger as the funds were exchanged." The crowd gasped audibly at this point for dramatic effect, as if hearing the events for the first time. The prosecutor waited an impressive number of seconds before concluding: "Flinkbottum then smiled and said 'Thanks, love' before trying to make his getaway." The crowd immediately burst into excited babble as the lawyer shouted above them that such decadence could not be tolerated if the morality of the nation was to be upheld, and the punishment should be made to fit the crime for the sake of all children everywhere.

The prisoner suddenly dove across the table in a futile escape attempt, but was immediately subdued and handcuffed by two burly guards and poked in the eye by the prosecutor. He screamed in pain. The lawyer giggled psychotically, and the crowd cheered their approval. The queen banged the desk and called for silence.

There was silence.

She looked around the room carefully, tapping her fat little finger on the desk, and considering her judgement. The crowd waited in nervous anticipation of her verdict, as if all offenders weren't given identical sentences. "Have his foreskin stapled over. Then castrate him with a hack saw," she stated simply and left the courtroom.

Upon leaving her cheering flock, she strode down the corridor hoping to find exactly what she eventually found. A broad smile folded her jowls as she caught a glimpse of General Wimms exiting the king's conference hall.

"Oh, Oliver," she sang sweetly. Wimms pretended not to notice and quickened his pace. "Wimms!" she bellowed, commanding his attention. He froze in his tracks. He shuddered noticeably before turning to face his queen, a feeble attempt at a smile across his prematurely aged face. Queen Bob smiled, too. "Come," she ordered. Wimms wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead, and reluctantly obeyed.

In the queen's private chambers, Wimms was stripped naked by two young pages, bound to the queen's royal bed and gagged with one of her pretty royal scarves. He lived in dread of Pervert's Court Day. They always got Queen Bob so excited. As the pages quietly left through the servant's doors, the queen appeared in several yards of pink negligee through another. Wimms shut his eyes and concentrated hard on not getting an erection. Unfortunately, he failed as always.

After about four hours of being abused, misused, poked, stoked, pervaded, and invaded, Queen Bob sympathetically removed her pretty royal scarf from Wimms' mouth.

"You know, Oliver," she said softly, as she rested her obscenely large head on his thigh and fingered his naval, "I do enjoy our little rendezvous so much." Wimms, trying frantically to blink the stinging sweat from his eyes, replied with as much sincerity as he could muster. "I...I'm glad you are pleased, M'lady." She wrapped some strands of his chest hair around her finger. "You know, Oliver," she stated, her tone more serious, "You didn't seem altogether enthusiastic today." She tugged slightly at his hair. "I would so hate to have to inform King Bob how you attempted to seduce me - his loving wife and queen." She did not try to disguise the threat. "I wonder how he would react?" Wimms trembled quite genuinely.

"I"m sorry, Your Sexiness," he replied as previously instructed, "I promise to be more enthused next Court Day." Queen Bob slapped him viciously across the face. "Good!" she said pleasantly, "Adieu until next time, Ollie." She tenderly kissed the welt forming on his cheek, and left the room.

In the humble shack occupied by the Aberkrombie clan, fifteen year old Ksandra stood slowly running a large antique brush through the beautiful long blonde hair of her older sister, Abigail. Ksandra wished that her own hair was as long, as blonde, and as beautiful as Abigail's. Hers was a dirty sort of blonde, and rather straggly. Her overall appearance, though not unattractive, could best be considered "somewhat mousy - but with potential".

Ksandra wasn't under any misconceptions about sibling comparisons. Even though Abigail rarely forgot to mention her own superior attractiveness to her younger sister, Ksandra was the first to comment on Abigail's great beauty. She loved her elder sister dearly and never entertained a jealous thought. She was in admiration of Abigail's figure as well. It was as curvaceous and sensual as her own was shapeless and unappealing. Ksandra sighed to herself. She dreamt of someday being as beautiful a person as her sister.

"Stop daydreaming, you ugly little bitch," Abigail spat, "You're supposed to be concentrating on me!" "I'm sorry, Abby. It won't happen again," she responded timidly. She knew Abigail must have something on her mind and didn't mean to speak so tersely. She was certain that, deep down, Abigail was a genuinely nice person. Everyone was. Ksandra had no more daydreams until Abigail got bored and pushed her away.

"Shit!" exclaimed General Wimms as he was unceremoniously dumped from his boat. When he surfaced and waded to shore, he suggested to the sergeant responsible that he, the trembling sergeant, was someone who indulged in homosexual oral sex as well as maternal intercourse and several other eccentric acts too vulgar to mention. He then slapped the man silly and began making his way up to the sentry hut where Harold Daisy had been pleasantly napping.

He had been being fed grapes by a naked female demon under a full moon while two cute little red imps darned the hole in his sock...He was aroused from his slumber by the volume of General Wimms' outrage. Harold rubbed his droopy eyes, peeked out of the hut and seen four PGA boats docking in the bay. And General Wimms himself strutting towards the hut!

No one was aware of the Brocklian sniper hidden high atop a leafy cypress tree nearby. Harold's eyes widened as he realized he would soon be face to face with General Oliver Wimms. He jumped off his stool and frantically tried to straighten out his dishevelled uniform. The enemy sniper raised his rifle as the general neared the sentry hut. Harold quickly scanned the hut's interior to make sure everything was in order.

Horrified, he remembered he hadn't finished cleaning his rifle. It lay on the dirt floor, sand partially obscuring it's butt. He lunged for the weapon, tried desparately to make it appear acceptable, and stood at attention. Sweat dripped from under his crooked beret.

The soldier from Brockley centered the head of General Wimms in his cross-hairs.Harold suddenly realized that his bullets were in his pocket. He hurriedly fumbled with them and managed to load them in his rifle.

Wimms approached the sentry hut...The sniper's finger tensed on his trigger...Harold gripped his gun in proper military fashion...Dropped it...Picked it up...And accidentally squeezed the trigger. The shock sent him reeling. The bullet exploded through the hut's only window, grazed the neck of General Wimms, and disappeared into the nearby cypress tree a moment before a man fell dead from the same tree. General Wimms had immediately hit the dirt. A corporal yelled to him that the enemy soldier was dead - a bullet had lodged squarely in his heart. Harold used the precious few seconds to regain control of his gun. Wimms rose, dusted himself off, and opened the door of the hut. There stood Harold in perfect military form; his rifle shouldered, his beret on straight, and his right hand perfectly saluting the General whose life he had just saved.

Harold H. Daisy was a Perfektian war hero.

A shrill alarm bluntly announced the end of another work day. The looms stopped weaving, the scissors stopped cutting, and the sweepers hung up their brooms once again. Worn and tired, Just Manley filed slowly along through the exit of the dingy textile factory. He was making his way to the bicycle rack when he was startled to hear the sweet musical voice of Abigail Aberkrombie calling his name. He turned, wondering if he had imagined it, but the most beautiful girl on the island was indeed walking toward him, smiling and swaying. Even with her hair net still in place and the grey unisex coveralls camouflaging her sensuous curves, Just's own identical coveralls became unbearably tight in the crotch as he watched her approach. "Hello, Justin," she purred, "My name's -" "Is Abigail Annabelle Aberkrombie." Just interjected. "You're seventeen years old. You live on the east side of the kingdom, near Quayle Lake. And you run the third loom from the right in the eighth row," he recited idiotically. Abigail appeared hurt.

"Don't you know my birthday?" she pouted, "Everyone should, you know." Just apologised, then guessed that it must be in the spring. In the spring, when all pretty things were brought into being. In the spring, when all of nature is magically delivered from bland to beautiful. When hope and happiness is blessedly rejoiced, in the glorious springtime.

It was in December. Just blushed and apologised again. They walked their bicycles and talked all the way to Abigail's house. Just knew the way, and Abigail expected no less. She informed him that he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. Just confided in her that he was anxious to change the system; to help create a new society where honest folks received honest wages for honest work. He told her his dream of a time in the not too distant future, when people only had to work maybe only twelve or so hours a day, and only six days a week. The other day could be used to play, rest, or whatever people wanted. The fields would flourish, everyone would be happy and well fed...

...And I would be Queen, thought Abigail. The idea intrigued her immensely. The more Just talked, the more excited he got. And the more excited he got, the more Abigail encouraged him. Yes, she thought smiling, this is the man.

The two youths sat on the shore of Quayle Lake and planned their revolution until well after sunset. Just Manley fell in love with Abigail that night, and Abigail fell in love with her envisioned wealth and power.

To the north of the island, royalty dined. Nice King Bob complained that his goose was over-cooked. "Well then have some lamb, Dear," his wife offered. The forty foot dining table was overflowing with assorted meats, vegetables, hors d'oeuvres, and luscious desserts. The king muttered in disgust and shoved a leg of lamb into his mouth.

Halfway down the table, Prince Peter the Misunderstood sat silently flicking his minced carrots around his plate. He was depressed as usual. "What's the matter, Peter, Love," Queen Bob asked sympathetically. Prince Peter sighed. "I...I need something more fulfilling in my life, Mummy," he whined, "Something like -" "I understand, Son," she cut in. The queen waddled her way around the table, picking up a plate of mashed potatoes on the way.

"There you are, Honey," she soothed, "Eat these. They're much more fulfilling than those silly little carrots." Just then, General Wimms entered the grand banquet hall. Peter raised an eyebrow to his mother who had purred audibly when she saw him. Wimms deliberately didn't look at her as he pulled up a chair next to Nice King Bob, and sat down diplomatically. "I hope I'm not disturbing you, Sire," he stated apologetically. "Of course not, Wimms," the king began gently, "There's nothing I enjoy more than seeing your ugly fucking face while I'm supping with my family!" The king was shouting by the time he finished. Half chewed chunks of lamb spewed rather ungraciously from his mouth landing on and around the nervous general.

"It's important, Sire," he managed. "Then get on with it, for fuck sakes!" he seethed impatiently. He accepted a piece of chocolate cake from his wife. She pleasantly offered Wimms some too, but he politely refused. Prince Peter also refused a piece, before Queen Bob returned to her seat to devour the rest of the cake herself. Wimms tried not to feel her gaze on him, mentally undressing him. He felt so cheap.

"It's the new opinion poles, Sire," he stated. "It seems there may be some worrisome signs to be read in them." "What are the ungrateful pissants whining about now?" King Bob asked unconcerned. "Well, first of all, there seems to be a general rise in the opinion that the queen may be a tad too strict on what actually constitutes sexual perversity." "Oh for heavens sake," Queen Bob interrupted, her mouth full of chocolate cake, "The heathens think about nothing but sex. Let them...," she looked down at her plate, "Let them eat more often to take their filthy minds off the subject." Nice King Bob burped his agreement. "There. That's settled. On your way, Wimms. You're spoiling my fucking appetite." He waved the general away with a slight motion of his greasy hand. "Well, there are more pressing matters, Your Niceness." "What the fuck are they?" "The people say they are hungry, Sire. Hungry and cold." Nice King Bob forgot his good nature. "I already introduced Bobenomics, my trickle down theory. What's the fucking problem now?" he growled at Wimms. Wimms quickly averted his eyes, but they unfortunately ended up on Queen Bob. She was smiling seductively at him. Little chocolate cake crumbs littered her chin and jowls. She winked at him. Wimms shuttered and brought his attention back to the king.

"Apparently Bobenomics wasn't entirely successful, Sire." "It was fucking perfect!" the king raged. "If it didn't work, then it's because those fucking ingrates buggered it up somehow!" Wimms began to sweat. He hated his job. "Well Sire, the part where the wealthy - namely you - were given everything of value in the kingdom was executed without a hitch, but it seems your happiness somehow failed to trickle down to your subjects." "Why the whimpering ungrateful bastards. See if I ever try to make them happy again." He grabbed a fresh leg of lamb and bit savagely into it. Wimms looked forward to the rest of the conversation about as much as the masses looked forward to the work day. "You may have to, Your Nice Bobness," he forced himself to say. King Bob burped. "May have to what?" "May have to try to please them again." "Why ever fucking for?" he laughed incredulously. "They may revolt, Sire." Wimms had said it. He had practised saying it twenty different ways. Now he had just heard himself blurt it out. He was quite relieved to have it over and done with.

"They've been revolting for years," the king said off-handedly, "They're all filthy fucking slobs." "No, Sire. I mean the citizens may attempt to overthrow the royal government". "Don't be fucking silly, Wimms," he laughed and looked amusedly to his confidant. Wimms' face remained stoic. "In the conference hall! Now!" King Bob screamed. His fat fist slammed heavily onto the side of a plate of sliced tomatoes, catapulting them high into the air and eventually down on top of the hapless Prince Peter.

With the countless numbers of ragged youths that Nice King Bob had falsely bribed into existence, the easiest part of the revolution was recruiting an army. Of the first seven hundred young citizens propositioned, they all joined up except for Laurance Bradlee who thought it was a neat idea and all, but was almost certain it was illegal and didn't think his mom would let him.

After only a month of organising, training, and planning, the resistance had build an army capable in numbers to rival that of King Bob's PGA. Their main weapons were the pent up frustrations of a lifetime of oppression and a really big stick that was nearly as long as it's owner, ten year old Chester Fields.

Just Manley banged a less impressive stick against a large stew pot he had smuggled out of his granny's house, and formally began the first all together assembly of the Children Of Unfair Perfektia, or the "C.O.U.P." Just had agonised over choosing the best name for the group, and was quite impressed with his choice. "I think that's silly," shouted a pouty little voice from somewhere amid the crowd. "What's silly?" asked Just from his position atop the official speaker's crate. He scanned those who had gathered in the vacant lot defying curfew, searching for the owner of the voice.

Young Chester Fields fought his way to the front, stomping feet and elbowing groins of much larger boys who might of otherwise thought him a ninny. After much indignation, everyone blocking his way had eventually moved aside, whether voluntarily or not. He popped out from between two big dumb brothers who didn't know what was going on. Identical looks of bewilderment crossed their dopey faces as Chester laboriously shifted them aside. His determined little face was smeared with dirt. His unruly blonde hair hung in his eyes, and his worn out trousers showed telltale stitch marks where they had been let down more than once. "Our name, that's what's silly," he said, his bushy eyebrows crossed into each other. "Children of Unfair Perfektia - That makes us CUP. CUP's a completely silly name for a group." Just smiled out at the crowd, then condescendingly down at the boy. "It doesn't spell CUP, little boy. It spells COUP," he said slowly so the lad would understand. "No it doesn't. You don't count the 'O' for 'of'. It spells CUP. I don't want to be a CUP!" Chester was adamant. "I'd rather be a PLATE than a bloody CUP." Just had to force a smile now. "We," he emphasised, "are using the 'O'. Now are their any other comments before we begin our meeting?" He looked around the three hundred or so recruits that had turned out for his speech. "So it's COOP then? Like a pigeon COOP?" Chester asked with his head cocked and runny nose crinkled. "Listen, kid. It's COUP. A coup is an overthrow of the government. Now if there's no more ques-"

"I'm not a child!" shouted Chester vehemently. "I never said you were!" Just seethed back. "Then why's our group called Children of Unfair Perfektia?" "It means children of our beloved motherland." "It's stupid. We're not children," the child went on, "And Unfair Perfektia - That's stupid, too. Perfektia's not unfair. It's just Nice King Bob." Just shook his head and tried to speak gently with the boy. "I'm sorry you're unhappy with the name, little boy. If you can think of a better one, come back and let us know, alright? Now, let's -" "Perfektians Against Stupid Things Alliance!" Chester said it rather meekly, but it was loud enough to distract Just again. The resistance leader looked at him for a moment while thinking, then laughed, "PASTA?! He thinks we should be called PASTA folks!" he shouted to the group, still laughing. The crowd muttered amongst themselves. "Nice try, kid," he snickered. He looked down to his carefully prepared arousal speech, cleared his throat - and heard a cry forming itself in the legion of new soldiers. It was only a mumble at first, but as it gained new voices and grew in intensity, the message became horrifying clear to Just: "PAS-TA, PAS-TA, PAS-TA!" they roared.

Just Manley was now leading PASTA.

During the meeting, three young generals had been appointed, as well as an assortment of lesser ranking militia, right down to second assistant secretaries. Against Just's opposition, young Chester Fields had helped elect himself to the position of Deputy Military Strategist in charge of map making. Battalions had been organised, and the next meeting was assigned to grouping and then arming after that, and then...

Just was bursting with desire to get into action. His daydreams had never included paperwork and discussions, only full-fledged battle, victory, and it's rewards, but he realised now that these tedious steps must be endured. He was resting in PASTA's makeshift headquarters in a hollowed out area underground. Swell King Jack had had the tunnel dug for a sewage drain he was working on. But after his death, Nice King Bob(who couldn't think of anything more ridiculous than spending fortunes of money and hundreds of hours to have shit moved from anywhere to anywhere else) immediately cancelled the project.

The vacant tunnel ran from just behind the northern most row of huts all the way under the Forest Main almost to the bend in the River Prosperity. The junction where a secondary route would have carried overflow waste directly into the Sea of Love, was where all the big PASTA decisions would be made. An old wooden chair and two orange crates set side by side served as office furniture for the resistance leader. The conference room consisted of twelve large stones arranged in a semicircle facing toward an even larger stone to seat the CEO. Just had been convinced by Abigail to set himself apart in order to maintain respect and avoid power struggles. Several bundles of hay stuffed into five potato sacks, expertly bound together by Ksandra Aberkrombie, provided a really-quite-comfy bed for Just to "think for the cause without undue distraction".

This was where Abigail found him when she arrived. She had missed the meeting as her siblings were making her a new dress that she simply had to try on before she left home. She was almost wearing it when she got there. It was a light frock scandalously high-hemmed at mid-thigh. At mid beautifully sensuous thigh, Just noted. Despite all efforts to the contrary, he failed to control his breathing when he seen her strutting toward him.

"Hello, Justy," she said seductively, in that raspy but somehow unbearably arousing voice of hers. Just managed to nod his greetings. She swayed over to where he lay on the potato sacks, and positioned herself over him. Her sandals touched his trembling ears as she allowed him a candid view up her dress. He was hoping for a glimpse of her panties but wasn't too upset to see she wasn't wearing any. She slowly lowered herself to sit on his pulsing crotch.

"Are you having revolting thoughts?" she teased. Just cleared his throat, swallowed, began to speak, then decided to clear his throat and swallow again. Abigail giggled. Leader of PASTA or not, he was merely noodles in her strainer.

Ksandra Aberkrombie walked slowly and carefully along a secondary trail which wound it's way through one of the island's most beautiful gardens. She would stop occasionally to adore the sweet scent of petunias and roses and marigolds. She would often tenderly grip their stems and inhale deeply, being very careful never to hurt them. She would never be so arrogant as to believe her pleasure should be gained at the expense of another of nature's creations.

While studying the pretty yellow petals of a wonderful blossoming daffodil and lazily dreaming of life as a flower in a beautiful garden, she was startled back to reality by a voice behind her;

"Pleasantly, tenderly, the breeze rolls in

The daisy, reaching, welcomes the wind

The pedals - they sway - the scent it is freed

The neighbouring flowers follow it's lead

And the bleeding world pleads for more"

Ksandra stood motionless, the flower to her lips. Tears formed in her wide, hazel eyes. With the sincerest of admiration, she turned to face her poet. "I've never heard war and peace expressed so beautifully." she admitted shakily. Prince Peter stood a moment in silence, in shock. "You...you understood that?" he asked incredulously. Ksandra smiled slightly. "Is it not immediately apparent to all who hear the blessed virtue of your angelic lyrics?" Now it was Prince Peter who had tears in his eyes. "I love you," he uttered absently, as he gazed longingly into the depths of pure innocence and beauty that were Ksandra's honest eyes. "And I, you...", she responded, equally lost within his.

"Bullshit!" roared King Bob. He and General Wimms sat in conference behind closed doors. "Why, my loyal subjects would never consider turning against me, their devoted ruler! Besides, they're far too fucking stupid to organise such a campaign. You've seen them, Wimms. I can tell them something today, tell them the opposite tomorrow - and they've already forgotten!" Nice King Bob was trying to convince himself more than his advisor of the improbability of such an uprising.\par }{\plain "But the signs are all there, Sire," Wimms explained, "Our statistical researchers assure me that the mood of the people is sour, and the timing is perfect for such a peasant's uprising." "Perfect!?" screamed Bob, "Fucking PERFECT?! Off with their heads! How dare they suggest such a thing and call it perfect!" "We have a crack team of forty three statistical researchers, Your Kindness," Wimms snickered, "Surely we can't behead them all." The king did not share Wimms' sense of humour in the situation. "Have we not forty three axes in this fucking kingdom?" "Well, yes, Sire, but -" "Then so be it!" "Yes, Sire." Wimms didn't find it relevant at this point to admit that "perfect" was his choice of words, and not that of the researchers.

Before dawn had broke the following morning, the wives of all forty three official royal statistical researchers were widows, and this set Nice King Bob's mind somewhat at ease. But a nagging little voice persisted in his head. As he wasn't about to have himself decapitated, he was obligated to listen the voice. It told him that he must find a way to convince the pitiful fucking idiots that he was indeed a good king, and should be allowed to rule over them forever. But how to convince them? Nice King Bob sat in his favourite throne, rubbing it's thickly padded arms with tense, sweaty fingers, and pondered the problem.

Word spread rapidly of Harold's bravery. By the time the street merchants and laundry ladies got through with the tale, Harold had apparently saved an entire platoon by single handedly offing an elite group of trained assassins along with a fairly large and nasty sea serpent. More than a few of the many who subjected Harold to wedgies and other assorted indignities in his youth, now claimed to be his best friend. A hero's parade awaited him when he arrived home to Perfektia.

Harold had actually considered telling General Wimms the truth about how he came to save his life, but only for a moment. He was very nervous as he waited outside the general's office. Wild thoughts of pay raced through his mind. Surely saving the life of a general in war would be worthy of some great prize.

On the other side of the massive oak door, Oliver Wimms was cursing the very existence of Harold Daisy. Initially, he had been extremely grateful to the soldier, but having had several days to consider the situation, it became painfully obvious to him that Daisy had done him a grave injustice. He imagined himself cheerfully dead, buried with full military honours for dying in the line of duty. No more difficult decisions to make...No more being attacked by the queen on Pervert Day...No more kissing up to the nastiest little tyrant he had ever met...As far as General Wimms was concerned, Harold Daisy was an asshole.

Harold had a difficult time containing his excitement when Wimms finally called him in. He stood at almost perfect attention before the general's desk and smiled idiotically despite his best efforts not to. Wimms glared back at him contemptuously. "I'll get straight to the point, Soldier," he began, "It's obvious you deserve some sort of reward for your heroic action the other day on Brockley". Harold blinked his agreement. "For God's sake, at ease, man!" Wimms shouted when he noticed Harold's statue-like form still in full salutatory stance. Harold immediately complied. "Anyway", he continued, "it has been decided by powers beyond my control to have you promoted from private to general's aide". He glanced up to see the soldier's expression.

None. Harold hadn't the slightest idea what that meant, nor did he particularly care. He just wanted money. "Now what that traditionally means, Daisy, is that you arrange meetings for me, offer advice when called upon, and conduct press conferences and the like. But between you and me, Daisy, we both know that you are an incompetent moron. I can tell just by looking at you. So your duties will be less arduous. Basically, you'll do nothing except walk a few steps behind me and try to look half-intelligent". Harold was noticeably relieved. He realised that looking half-intelligent may require some effort, but he was fairly confidant he could perform the rest of his duties with just a little practice.

Beautiful Abigail was paying no attention to Ksandra as the two sisters washed laundry. Actually, Ksandra did the washing while Abigail tried to examine her beauty in the reflection of the wash basin water. She was determined to pull off this revolution thing even if it killed - well, someone. An idea suddenly popped into her pretty little head.

"Ksandra, how would you like to join our little club?" she asked. Her sister, wringing out one of Abigail's dresses, replied, "Oh, I don't think so, Abbie. I'm not really -" "You're joining, bitch!" Abigail spat, "or I'll scratch your homely little eyes out". "Well, okay. If you really want me to I will", she said softly. Ksandra was flattered that her sister had wanted her company. What sort of person would she be if she didn't respond while Abbie was trying to befriend her? "Fine. Your duties will include notetaking and agreeing with my ideas. And you better not embarrass me or you'll live to regret it." "Sign me up", Ksandra said. She would be proud to make her big sister happy.

Nice King Bob had his mind made up; he would make his people like him again. He was so determined to make this happen, he vowed he would kill every last one of them if he had to. That was the extent of his dedication with this project. He pondered many approaches when deciding just how to bring the heathens around. He considered lowering taxes, creating affordable housing, raising wages... Then it came to him; he would hold a free concert at Yo, the royal forum.

There would be sticks for the children to play with, free water for all in attendance, and the king himself would play his lute at the Arts in Yo Hall! The Arts in Yo Hall show would provide the perfect platform to prove to the pathetic masses that he was just another normal guy, so they should put all their trust in him and let him do whatever the hell he likes with their trivial lives. Bob smiled in the looking glass, admired his face, and set out to make it happen.

Harold's first day of training as Aide to General Wimms was horrendous at best. If anyone enjoyed the experience less than Harold, it was the General himself. He started out getting Harold to help him organise the Arts in Yo Hall show. He plotted everything from the order of ceremonial events to the positioning of stage props. It was Harold's job to write down Wimms' ideas -nothing more. After several hours of careful strategy, Wimms couldn't remember which act he had tentatively scheduled between the anti-Brockley puppet show and old man Reegan's performing chickens. He asked Harold. "What?" was Harold's predictable response. "Which act is between the puppets and the chickens, Daisy?". He spoke slowly keeping his anger in check with great self-restraint. Harold nodded his understanding of the question. "How should I know?", he answered, not in cheek, but with genuine curiosity. Wimms bit his lip. "Ow!", said Harold, "Why'd you bite my lip for!" he whined. "Because you, Daisy, have got to be the stupidest joke of a man I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. I had to bite you. It just came over me and the urge refused to be contained. Harold sucked the blood from his lip, as did Wimms. "Listen, Daisy, simply leaf back a few pages in your notebook. Back to where I decided the order of the acts to appear. Harold complied. He flipped back a few pages, studied a page, cleared his throat, and turned to another page. Wimms watched him in fascination. After a few minutes he couldn't take it anymore. He snatched the book from Harold's grasp and looked for himself. Except for a rather quite decent drawing of an eyeball on page three, the book was void of any markings whatsoever.

Unbelieving, the General searched frantically throughout the pages several times. Finally, he was convinced that Harold really had not written a single word. He slowly raised his eyes and smiled at his assistant. Harold was looking around the room tapping his pencil on his nose. When he caught Wimms' stare, he smiled back, relieved that the general didn't look upset.

In as cool a voice as he could muster, Wimms politely asked why their were no words on the pages. Just a little embarrassed, Harold giggled and admitted, "Um, I'm illateral, Sir."

Following his chance encounter with Ksandra Aberkrombie, Prince Peter returned to his royal abode oblivious to the world around him. When a servant summoned him for his dinner, he cheerfully dismissed her, claiming the enormous appetite of his heart was fully sated and left joyfully little capacity for mere customary nutritives.

"Y'aint eatin'?", the maid asked. The prince giggled a creepy little giggle, replied, "I ain't eatin'", and rolled across his bed singing "ain't eatin', ain't eatin', de de dum". "Very well, Sir", the maid said cautiously, careful not to make any sudden moves, and hurriedly removed herself from his presence. As she left, Peter sighed and wondered if he had ever sighed while smiling before. Highly unlikely, he thought. Enjoying the feel of it, he sighed and smiled again. Then he smiled and sighed. And then he envisioned Ksandra...the wonderful, beautiful, understanding Ksandra. He popped out of bed and pranced over to his writing desk inspired to write a love poem for her;

"Magically, musically, Ksandra steps in

The doves, sway, as her song they sing

The nymphs - they dance - the elves they play

The angels - they smile - rejoicing the day

And her beauty the Gods adore"

He hadn't informed Ksandra of his regal position as Prince of Perfektia. It wasn't that he was ashamed of his family (although he was). It wasn't that he didn't wish to intimidate her (because that would have been fine). It wasn't even that he wanted her to love him as an equal (for equality scared the hell out of him). It was simply that he forgot. When he met Ksandra he was a mere fool in love. He was meeting her again tonight. He intended to tell her that he was soul heir to the whole bloody kingdom - if he remembered.

* * *

Peter. Peter. Peter. She didn't even know his last name, but after just one magical encounter, Ksandra knew she was in love with him - and would be for all eternity. She was slightly bewildered that she had never seen him at market or anywhere else, but it seemed too trivial a matter to fret over. She simply couldn't wait to see him again tonight.

They met in the same public garden where they had last seen each other. There was surprisingly little awkwardness between them considering their timid dispositions; they simply met, and kissed lovingly before the first words were spoken.

"Oh, how I missed you, fair lady", Peter expressed, "Your beauty's short absence from my humble presence has been akin to an ocean going ship sailing slowly by moonlight in a quietly desperate search of a pleasant harbour in which to port, but alas, no beacon was to be spotted for many lonely moons - until finally, finally, a modest lighthouse beam meekly pierced the murky fog and the silent night, and the ship's lonely foghorn emitted a triumphant blast of amiable relief". "I missed you too, Peter", Ksandra responded honestly.

The young lovers walked hand in hand throughout the magnificent garden, discussing many deep feelings including Ksandra's yearn to be as beautiful as her older sister, and Peter's despair at always being misunderstood. There would be no secrets between them, no matter how minuscule. "...and then Abbie asked me to join the revolt with her", Ksandra was saying, "I was so honoured that she would consider me worthy of aiding in such a noble cause as the liberation of our brothers and sisters". "What revolt?", Peter asked quizzically. "What revolt?", Ksandra echoed, "You mean you haven't heard of the PASTA Revolution?", she asked astonished, "Why, Peter, you must be the only boy in the kingdom that hasn't joined yet!" "I - I don't tend to get out much", he apologised meekly. "Well then", she said excitedly, "let me tell you all about it..."

Nice King Bob was busy having his teeth thoroughly flossed by a sultry servant with a much more than adequate bosom complimenting her pleasing appearance when General Wimms entered the chamber.

"Ah, you're here, Wimms", the king observed, pushing the girl away by her breasts, "We need to talk". The two approached the war desk as the girl left the room. "We need to bring our heroic soldiers home from Brockley", Bob stated, "Those brave young men who have been taken from us and imprisoned on that hellish isle". "The P.O.W.s, Sire?" "Yes. Our beloved captured loyalists. Have you any ideas on how we can rescue them?" "Well, your compassionateness, King Maxwell has already said we can have them back, but you didn't want them". "I want them now!", Bob roared, "I want them cleverly rescued! I want them to come back home immediately! I want them to have a parade upon arrival! I want to personally adorn them with medals of bravery! And most importantly, Wimms", the king smiled craftily, "I want the whole kingdom to know it was all my doing".

"We'll have them arrive the day of the Arts in Yo Hall show", Wimms planned, "It can be like a national holiday". Nice King Bob laughed aloud, "Fucking perfect, General! Have it arranged immed- Oh! Oh!", he exclaimed, "We'll do it all on the day before Gratitude Day! And we'll give them both days off work! God, I'm fucking brilliant, Wimms! The little bastards will be lining up to kiss my royal fucking feet!" He howled with laughter and the always-accommodating general laughed along with him.