Rip. Rip. Rippppp.
"Oh, honey -- oh, come on, this is just juvenile."
"Ha! The traitorous Twenty-One thinks to turn on the Monarch, does he? Well, we'll just see how he likes it when he discovers all his gay little Star Wars dolls have been--" Rrrrrip "--removed from their original boxes!"
The Monarch tossed the figure into a small mountain of plastic forming on his right, and discarded of the rest in another small mountain of blister packs to his left. "So, Elan Sleazebaggano, now you know the bitter taste of the Monarch's sting!"
"God, this is pathetic. You're arching toys now."
"And having a great time doing it!"
"Look, Twenty-One was just mad. He'll be back when he's calmed down."
"Good. I want him to see this! I want him to see his empire in ruins!"
Sheila sighed and sat down on the bed, picking up one of the dozens of shoeboxes that had been in Twenty-One's closet. The man really loved his toys. Star Wars, Transformers, Battle Beasts, Ninja Turtles...
"Oh."
"What?" The Monarch looked up at her.
"Uh, nothing."
"What? Let me see. What's he got in there, the desiccated remains of a Cabbage Patch Kid?"
"Uh, no, it's just... photos."
"Photos of you! Oh, gross. I bet they're all sticky. Well, sure was a goooood idea to have him do all our digital archiving, wasn't it, honey?" the Monarch asked sarcastically.
"Well, he was the only henchman who knew how to use a scanner." Sheila pulled out a handful of photographs. "Wow, these go back forever. Here's one of me as Lady Au Pair ... here's one where I was Queen Etheria..."
"Wow, what's this one?"
"That's me as a 'sexy Queen Elizabeth' at a Halloween party in college. Most of these aren't very -- whoops."
A lone photo slipped out of her yellow-gloved hand and fluttered to the bed. The Monarch picked it up. It showed his wife dressed in a very skimpy couple of grape vine garlands that didn't leave much to the imagination.
"Oh, uh, that's from when I Number Two'd for Die-Onysus," Sheila explained. "I hated that costume, I couldn't even sit down without squashing a bunch of grapes all over everything."
"Not exactly flattering, either."
"Oh, uh," Sheila mumbled, embarrassed. "Uh, that's not the costume."
"What?"
"I, uh -- I kind of put on a little weight while I was with Die-Onysus."
"A little?" The Monarch turned the photo this way and that. "That's more than a little."
"Well, I couldn't help it!" Sheila said defensively. "It was all feasts and revels and wild parties. I was drunk off my ass half the time! And every time he arched, I don't even remember anymore, Professor somebody-or-other, the whole time he was talking I had to be eating these giant turkey legs in the background. For an atmosphere of decadence, he said. I put on about forty pounds in a couple of months and by the end of it I was having blackouts from all the drinking. I was lucky to get out of there."
"Oh, I know! Like, half that guy's henchmen are on the Guild's looking-for-donor-liver list, now."
"Yeah, it's depressing. Anyway, my next gig was with Truckules, thank god; the costume wasn't exactly form-fitting. And I lost all the weight carting the stupid thing around." She looked over at her husband. "So now you know my chubby little secret. If this turns into an excuse for fat jokes at my expense..."
"Of course not," said the Monarch. "At least, not until I think of one."
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