No ketchup for me sire

Continued from...

The impersonator wasn't feeling particularly happy. He had taken a lot of trouble to make a lunch/assassination date with the king, and now the king had stood him up. The impersonator wasn't particularly happy with this. And it's not like it was the king's fault either. The king wanted to be by the lunch/self-defense date, but the queen wouldn't let him. She said he was too fat to be going out to a lunch/potential-widowmaker appointment. Would she be there to supervise and make sure he stuck vegetables that ended in "i"? She didn't think so. So the king wasn't going. No matter that he was the king.

The impersonator decided to make himself some lunch instead. He made himself a cheap lunch, Edam cheese on roll with mustard x3, because the king wasn't paying. Heck, the king wasn't attending. The impersonator briefly considered interrupting the king's golf game, but he was too afraid of getting hit by one of the king's notorious errant chip shots to give the matter more than the briefest thought. No, for him it was to be another lonely lunch, never to be made glorious summer by any son of York. Valley Forge this was not, but rather Shakespeare at his finest, giving Richard III the voice he so desperately needed. And yet. And yet. The impersonator had some coffee and considered the turbo-nutrients that he was not imbibing. He didn't even know what a turbo-nutrient was. At least the bathroom had paper towels, the proper kind, the ones that most shuls were forced to use on shabbos.

Meanwhile, back at the palace, the queen was supervising the king's lunch. He wasn't going to be eating much, because she didn't let him, but still, the meal had to be fit for a king. The king was sitting in his bedroom listening to some Bach, but he soon grew irritated. The king hated listening to composers whose names he couldn't properly pronounce, and he also was no Henry VIII. Fortunately his chief of staff walked in soon enough and announced that dinner was served. The king bounced up and off his bed and promptly tumbled onto the floor. The chief steward found this to be a rather amusing sight, and began to laugh uproariously. The king, burning with a passion bordering on the pathological, bellowed with all the might inherent in a monarch of men, "Off with his head!" The queen, hearing this outcry, sailed majestically into the room, told the king curtly to get up off the floor and to come down to dinner, and then inquired about the head that had been forfeited. "It's a forfeit!" cried the other man, "they've only got eight hours live!" "No we don't," a deep voice said, much to the king's surprise, "since I am the queen, well a fair thing it would seem, to let him live a little longer, to be the ninth man on the team." The king told her that she didn't even make sense. The queen said, "Well, at the very least, don't kill him this paragraph. How can you countenance introducing a character and then killing him in the same paragraph? That's crazy!"

"I'm the king!" screamed the king, "I can do whatever I want! Guards! Off with his head!" Then, calming down somewhat, he said, "Well dear, at least you got your wish. It's a different paragraph." She wasn't particularly impressed, and made that known to him. He ate his lunch in silence. The impersonator did the same. The chief steward would have too, but his head was no longer in a position to do so.

To be continued...