The misadventures of the antisocial King

Damn that first old man.

It’s been one hundred seventy-three years, four days, nine hours, thirty-four minutes and six, seven, eight… seconds, since that day (approximately, of course).

Initially, strangers believe it is crazy to keep counting each second that goes by, since it had all ended. But that’s just it. Visitors do not understand the traditions of that iper, mega small town (seriously, when kids get bored, they start counting the number of houses and those numbers end way before their boredom disappears), and honestly… neither do I.

PJ’s Inn; that’s my family’s accommodation, passed down to the next generation from nearly two centuries. Pretty darn old, isn’t it? Just like the damn old man, my pops’s pops, you know? I can’t call him Grandpa — I stopped doing that since… he told me about that day.

This is an odd story; very odd. Don’t freak out when you’ll hear the heinous details of this life of mine, dear diary. Right. I am a 22 year old male, that is writing his own secret diary, in the toilets of the Inn that is about to fall apart.

“PJ, how long y’ll stay’n that toilet?! Get out!” My sister just screamed. God, the chickens in the yard make less noise than she does. Well, I don’t care, since she is the stereotypical girly, stylish teen that spends one hour in the bathroom doing a make-up I cannot even notice. Whatever. As I was saying, this is the first page of my diary. The first argument I will talk about will be about the “first” old man’s history, and the consequences that keep impacting my sad adulthood.

Right, my name. My name is Pierre Junior… VI. Yes. Number six. Of course, when people call me junior, the first Pierre rolls in his grave when he hears me scream. Can’t even describe my (and Pierre’s First) reaction when they call me sixth. In fact, currently, there are three Pierre’s that are alive: Pierre Junior IV, V and sad ol’ me, son of the fifth and nephew of the fourth. Well, it’s not like my sister is that lucky: her name’s Petra, which for all I know, is some sort of feminine version of Pierre. Worst of all, our parents admitted that they had much fun when they chose these names… but it’s not like we don’t tease my mom’s name, Penelope.

Too many P’s.

Oh, wait a second.

Anyway, whilst my little Petra is banging the door, what I want to impress in these pages is the reason why folks all around the globe have decided to come in our nearly inexistent village: we have to thank Mr. Pierre Hughes I, for such thing. Him, and the legend he left behind… on his deathbed.

He built from nothing the Inn where I keep working since the day I started walking, and it remained the only “hotel” in an area that extends for over a hundred kilometres. As we’re in the middle of nowhere, of course all those sad, unlucky folks and families that get lost in the desert land that surrounds the mountains, pass right through us. And that, my dear diary, means big bad money. Lots of it. That amount increases when people start purposefully come here: I would call them fools, but they’re just dreamers.

When folks come into my town, how can I say… they start searching my lands. 

(Legally, of course, otherwise with all those fines I would have lived in the Bahamas by now). The lands are under my utter control; Pierre VI is the king of those mountains. The territories have been left behind to me, the sixth king succeeding the throne, as gramps number four has moved deep down into a cave in the mountains (he doesn’t like people very much… at least, I guess so), and my pops’ working into a company very far from here, staying at the Inn a couple of weeks before leaving again. With promises and compromises, I have managed to take over this not-very-extended kingdom, full of dreams and empty pockets — empty because Petra stole and lost my wallet, with all my credit cards in it, of course.

But sadly, those dreams were ruined the moment my pops left and gramps has moved with Tarzan. The legend of the town was left into my hands, and the shy, antisocial Pierre Hughes VI became the king of PJ’s Legacy. What can I say… the poor young adult was suffocated and suppressed by the questions of the curious folks, that came rushing over him and his castle inn as they discovered his name.

And not one girl that was his age, funny or not engaged.

It must’ve been part of the PJ’s curse left by gramps number one. In fact, every time I look at the pictures in the corridors that represent that old man, I swear, I see him smile sometime. My minds dreams about him laughing, me cursing, Petra banging the damn door; eternally. 

And the first of reasons I am writing this, is only because I want it to become some sort of book named “the misadventures of the antisocial King”. It’s not like it is some sort of diagnosis, but I believe it is the term that describes me best; my social behaviour kind of changed, drastically, when the adventurers came asking for “Pierre Hughes”, the same name that was written in the legend that made this locality famous around the world. Let’s just say that their faces remain a lil bit disappointed when they notice that the famous Pierre is a young adult that clearly has some sort of anxiety problem.

Like that one time a lady asked me the reason why we kept calling our kids Pierre, and if I had intention to keep the tradition goin’: it was the first time after a while that a single lady as beautiful as she was talked to me… well, I imagine she left town traumatised when I answered “we gonna have babies?” and then hysterically laughed.

Yeah, I won’t ever try that again, don’t worry.

Ah, right. I keep talking about this local legend that everybody knows about, except you, dear diary. Let’s just say that super old gramps number one has died, and his last words were so compromising, that his story became known everywhere. He is remember for something insignificant, something so banal and cliché, that it only worked out because he immediately closed his eyes and never opened them again, after pronouncing them. Something pretty much similar will soon happen to me, the moment I step out of this room. 

Damn. I think my sister just made a hole in the door…….

Let’s get it done quickly! 

“Jeanette,” Gramps One had said. “My love, Jean” He also added. Here we can notice that even two centuries ago, these folks had trouble choosing some original names. “A treasure, I had found. Millions, it contains” Pierre said, his voice goin’ away, laughing in his grave as he prepares for Pierre Hughes Jr. VI’s future curse: “The money,” he said.

“The money are in the…”