King of the Rubble

Word count: 2,373

        I am the king of the rubble.  Flowers wilt at my feet and the sky once offered to be the ceiling of my domain.  I was baptized at birth by the rain.  The Sun, otherwise known as the esteemed priest who presided over that beautiful event, is a good friend of mine.

         They say that the Moon and stars cried with joy that day, each one showering my parents with divine gifts.  I never tangibly benefited from those gifts, but I assume that they have something to do with my current stature. 

         The sands beneath my delicate feet are charged with the insurmountable energy that shoots out of my toes. 

         I am the conductor of the great, galactic orchestra.  Saturn harps out a low, rich tune with her cello of comets while Mars' violin inspires Venus to break out her violent vocals.  All the while, I remain on the great mount that I call home, vigorously waving my star-stricken hands.

         The tune that results is audible to none other than me and my fiancée.  Sometimes, after a long, tiring day of being the king, I feel a deep sense of pity for those who cannot experience it.  What would my life be without that decadent sound?  Nothing!  Kingship is something that I inherited.  It's a burden, really.  And I, like every king before me, require a source of energy to broach each day. 

         The music settles in my personal jars like sweet, syrupy honey and dribbles into my morning cup.  One dose of that shit and I can conquer the world.  The sun warns me not to get drunk on the music.  He says it can distract me from my real responsibilities: my responsibilities to the world.  That's a bunch of nonsense.  The king doesn't need to be babysat.  I am genuinely incapable of comprehending his opposition to the most beautiful tune in existence.  It's a shame too.  The Sun would make one hell of a pianist.

         But he's a good friend, so I don't completely ignore him.  After all, he's planning to preside over my upcoming wedding.  I'm being married to princess Mikaela, my aforementioned fiancée.

         She's spectacular.  Her eyes twinkle so brightly I once mistook them for a pair of diamonds as she approached the mount at dusk.  Her hands and feet are made of china and she bears teeth comprised of impeccable marble.  Each hair upon her perfectly round scalp is a silken thread. 

         She revels in the music just as I do.  We spend many euphoric nights drawing from the jars that line my grand halls and conversing with Mother Moon. 

         She is my soulmate, and I mean that in a rather literal sense.  The fabrics of her soul are intertwined with mine, and those fabrics form the quilt under which we sleep.  Our love is interminable simply because she and I will live forever.

         The masses will join in the galactic chorus the day we are married.  Their shouts will bust down the chain-link barrier which isolates us, and I will be waiting for them with open arms.  Even now, as I orate the grandeur of my life, my heart flutters with a tremendous sense of love. 

         This brand of love, however, is entirely separate from that which I feel for Mikaela. 

         My love for the people is "agape", as the Greeks say.  It is selfless.  It doesn't grant me even one ounce of selfish pleasure, and the people match my love, my "agape", with their own.

         The selfless love that we share is our meeting point.  It's the spiritual destination that we are always driving towards.  It's the small, humble town on our road map that we circle with a red sharpie.

         It wasn't a simple task: developing such a relationship with the people.  In fact, it was extremely difficult.  Trust, like love, is such a fragile virtue.  One misstep can send trust sprinting for the far corners of the world.

         I, in reverent acknowledgement of this fact, carry myself with great caution when dealing with such matters as trust and love.  The people, at this very minute, trust me, and I trust the people.  All of that could, of course, change in a millisecond, but I have been known to prevent change.

         The people inform me that an explosive device once fell upon my royal palace.  They say that is the reason for its rather impoverished appearance. 

         I often question the mental condition of those who say such things.  How would a royal palace appear otherwise?  There is nothing more glorious than a tall, imposing mount of concrete and steel.

         There are times when I imagine God resting upon a throne identical to mine, his soft, veiny, immense hands stroking the rough metal armrest.

         Mikaela frequently questions this vision of mine.  She believes that I am greater than God.  I don't see it that way.  God, to my knowledge, is the being that injects divinity into my kingship, and, in that respect, I am certainly not superior to Him.

         The ten plagues slumber in my fingertips, and I am not so naïve that I crown myself as the one who can conjure them up within.  God is the unseen source of greatness, and I am merely a proxy in His grand scheme.

         But I remain, and always will remain, the King of the Rubble. 

         I dine on magma fresh from the Hawaiian volcanoes.  My dinner table is alight with a perpetual radioactive glow.  I have no need for supplementary protection.  The universe is my defensive shield.  I need only fear what lies outside of the universe.

         As I stated earlier, my kingship is a burden.  The Earth sits and revolves on my finger just as a basketball twirls upon the finger of an athlete.  Alas, I am fatigued, and I must rest before the wedding.  The level of fatigue I am experiencing calls for a long sleep, or even a temporary hibernation. 

         I find the latter option more appetizing. 

...

         Ahhh.  Tis' the day: the most glorious day of the past millennium.  The morning sky is brimming with brilliant blotches of orange, red, and magenta.  Demented birds are chanting the well wishes of the world outside my window.  Dew on the small patches of grass that congregate around the palace glistens to match my bright smile.

         I waltz gracefully outside and spot Mikaela absorbing the sun's energy.  I call to her, but she doesn't hear me, so I plop myself on a large chunk of concrete and admire the manner in which the sun's rays slide across her smooth face.

         She tilts her head to the right and her thin shadow falls across the dry, cracked ground.  It has never been more evident that the Sun, Father Sun, approves of Mikaela's astounding, transcendent beauty. 

         The clusters of trees hold their breath as she lifts herself up and inhales deeply.  I call to her once more and this time she sees me. 

         The rogue roses to her left and right stand at attention for the sake of the royal princess, soon to be the Queen of the Rubble, and she makes her way down the red carpet of dirt. 

         I begin to admire the sublime sunrise and Mother Moon peeks over the horizon, beaming with pride at her glowing offspring.  She winks at Father Sun, quietly confiding in him the responsibilities of royal matrimony.  Father Sun offers a characteristic bow of his golden head, indicating that he feels beyond prepared.

         "Shall I prepare my gown, love?" asks Mikaela.

         "You shall," I reply, taking her hand.

         I walk with her to her chamber and leave her alone so that I might be equally prepared for the grand ceremonies. 

         My marital robes are made of silk woven by an eight-legged friend of mine.  When I enter my chamber, I cautiously spoon my hands around the sleeves.  It would be a crime to damage such fine material. 

         My arms slip through the sleeves as if they're made of air.  I feel guilty for having the opportunity to wear robes of this caliber.  The cloth hugs my moist skin with the touch of a loving mother. 

         Euphoria sets in, carrying me sky high.  I trot from cloud to cloud, warming the rotten souls of creatures who lounge there in the nebulous crevices.  They gnash their teeth at me and hurl caustic comments, but ecstasy shrouds the sharpness of my senses.  Reason bears no value with them, so responses would be unwarranted anyhow. 

         Not one man in the universe is capable of feeling this way.  My life is too quintessential, too ideal, too pure, to be compared to that of another man.  Guilt, the kind of guilt I mentioned earlier, is a fleeting sensation.  I certainly experience it, but I have never once taken action on its behalf.

         The people shower me with agape, and I, of course, do the same.  Our agape, however, is not a relative of guilt.  The people understand that my kingship, along with all of its handsome perks, is purely circumstantial.  Alas, guilt is not, and never will be, an element of our vocabulary.

         My domain does not rest on the brink of revolution, and that truth will ring for as long as my chest heaves up and down and royal blood is coursing through my veins. 

         But enough of this tripe.  The hour is near, friends, when my domain shall bear witness to history in the making.

         Dusk has plopped himself down on the sky's sofa and the stars have filed into the function room of infinity. 

         Mother Moon claims a front row seat.  Father Sun is standing at the altar.  He has carved out just the right amount of time in his busy schedule to preside over the event.

         I stare out the window one last time.  After tonight, I will no longer see life through the lens of a lone king.  After tonight, Mikaela and I will peer through the lens together, dually exerting our power.

         "Your Majesty," calls Father Sun, "it is time!"

         As I stride down my halls of rubble towards the remainder of my beautiful life, I envision an engraving of my name in the night sky: Cornelius Northrop- King of the Rubble.  Oh, friends, how vivid a vision this is.  Thirty-two characters, each one hand-crafted by God and sprinkled with sand from Heaven's beaches.  It would be scattered among the epithets of the greats: Plato, Napoleon, Alexander. 

         These visions evoke such potent sensations, friends.  My blood is turning to mercury and heat is virtually pouring out of my flesh.  I leap from the peak of my palace and skip from fragment to fragment until I am standing in front of the veiled princess Mikaela.

         Father Sun begins the ceremony and I can hardly think straight, friends!  The excitement is too much to bear. 

         Father Sun's words transition into vows and vows become a firm, tantalizing embrace.  Father Sun beams brightly and Mother Moon's warm tears come hurtling down, establishing a thin, wet flow of moon water that runs down our faces.  Droplet after droplet descends to the edges of our eyelashes and falls gracefully.  Mikaela has never looked so profoundly beautiful. 

         As we walk hand in hand back to the palace for the celebration, I can't help but come to a pressing revelation: today is more than just a wedding day; today, Mikaela and I were baptized for the second time.

...

         We promised the people a glorious celebration, and believe me, friends, that is what we are giving them.

         Enough wine to make Dionysus shake his head, papaya, pineapples, apples, guava, bananas, avocado, tomatoes, strawberries, peaches, pears, tangerines, nectarines, coconuts, oranges, blueberries, passion fruit, cherries, dates; every fruit and vegetable under the sun spans the length of our dining table.  Roast beef, pork tenderloin, strip steak, pork chops; each tender cut of meat and scrumptious piece of fruit fills the cornucopia that serves as the centerpiece of my palace. 

         My wealth is fruitful, and the people, therefore, multiply.  In fact, they are multiplying yet.  They crash on the dining room shore in immense waves, and I remain atop my throne.  I, the watchful leader with eyes like a hawk, regard the people through my divine lens, and Mikaela, with pearls for eyes, joins me.

         As a new wave crashes in, I spot a young, slender man who appears to be beckoning to me excitedly. 

         "Sir!" he cries excitedly, waving his hands.

         I lean forward and squint my eyes to ensure that he is in fact calling to me. 

         "Sir!" he cries again, weaving through the crowd.

         He arrives at the foot of the stairs and ascends them with great care. 

         "They said I could find you here," he says.

         I turn up my lips, slightly offended by his use of the term, "sir".  "Who are 'they'?" I ask.

         "The locals, sir," he says.

         "The locals?"

         "The residents of this town, sir."

         I motion to the crowd, "These are the locals."

         He peers around the dining hall confusedly, "Oh, sir...I...I understand.  I was referring to those who live in the town about five miles south of here."

         "And what town is that?"

         "Why...Williamsburg, sir: one of the survivor towns."

         I nod, "And do survivors of the so-called nuclear catastrophe inhabit this town?"

         "Yes, sir."

         "I was unaware of its existence."

         "Well, sir, I was seeking an opportunity to do that town a service, and a number of its residents suggested that I come to see you."

         "I don't have any work for you, young man."

         He smiles and looks down, "Sir, I don't think you're understanding me clearly.  I am here to give you money.  They said that your condition warrants such generosity."

         "Money?!  How dare you, peasant!  Are you blind to my unsurpassable fortune?"

         "Oh...I'm truly sorry, sir."

         "And don't call me, 'sir'!" I roar, "I'm the King of the Rubble!"

         "Sir, I am so very sorry.  I apologize for disturbing you."

         "Be gone, peasant!" I scream at the top of my lungs, rising from my throne. 

         My flesh reaches boiling point, the crowd scatters, and I poise my fingertips for the release of the ten plagues.