THE FADED PURPLE ROBES
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities with places, people or incidents, dead or alive, existent or not in the past, present or future is purely co-incidental.
The old frail king sat back on his comfortable leather sofa, his head hung to the side. A crown, merely for decorative purposes was perched on his somewhat knobby right knee. His left leg was stretched out with his foot precariously close to a bowl with a lonesome goldfish which picked up its pace and wrinkled its nose ( Not that it had a nose, per se, but instead of having a peaceful look usually associated with goldfish, it kind of had the look of someone who was constipated)at the smell.
He mused about the bloody war that he had just lost and was aiming to put the blame on someone else (It could be anyone but him. The people, the tv, the neighbour’s cat, hell; even the big old royal palm behind his grandmother’s house would do) He tried to recall how he ever ended up in this predicament and could only think of the incidents that all too well began about five years before. He tried thinking of his vehement denial pertaining to certain issues and was thankful that the people were clueless regarding that. But now, he couldn’t be too sure. He needed to think. And the goldfish swam in circles in its little bowl wondering why the smell still remained.
In another place about a five hour drive away (that is if you took the shortest route ever possible through mountains and jungles, and provided that the carnivorous goats didn’t eat you, or horned ducks didn’t puncture your vehicle first) another old, but not so frail king shook his own hand in the privacy of his ‘thinking room’ congratulating himself over a recent achievement that he believed had happened thanks to the war that had just ended.