The Teflon King

No one suspects that the three cheerful-looking people sitting in the back of Sidewinder’s Saloon are planning a revolution.

Their leader, Nestor Bukharin, is a pleasant-looking, fit, twenty-something with granny glasses and a Vladimir Lenin T-shirt. Simone Bolivar maintains her low-key appearance as a part-time kindergarten teacher, wearing a gray jumpsuit and mirrored sunglasses. Only the third member, known only as Tito, looks slightly threatening, reflecting the bulky and bearded aura of a wrestler.

The three are part of the Adria Socialist People’s Party, an organization of six hundred members intent on overthrowing King Percival Pappalardi’s monarchy.

Nestor looks intently at his fellow conspirators. “Adria is out of step with the rest of Europe. People like Tito and I work in restaurants for minimum wage, while King Percival and his cronies eat watercress sandwiches and play polo. Today, on the advice of Prime Minister Weldon Hepburn, King Percival condemned our brother member Joe Rosenburg to death as an insurgent.”

Tito guzzles down his mug of beer. “I liked Joe. He was a good pinochle player.”

“Percival listens too much to his conniving Prime Minister. He and his whole rotten court have to go,” Simone says.

“I heard he’s worried about his family and may be willing to resign,” Tito interjects.

“Sure. If we allow him to be exiled to Sweden with the country’s treasury,” Nestor replies. “Simone is right. Percival is a lying snake. He says he wants the people to be represented, so he appoints yes men to his advisory council, but then he denies them the right to vote.”

Simone sighs. “Things might be different if Queen Ilona were still alive. She was his conscience. They did so many good things together. They provided aid to farmers and encouraged economic growth. They championed research in cancer treatment and childhood diabetes. And they were advocates for climate change. What was it he said at the World Conference? ‘The earth doesn’t belong to us; we belong to the earth.’”

Nestor takes a sip of his scotch, grimacing at its potency. “The good he has done hardly outweighs the bad. He has condemned hundreds of people to death for speaking out against his regime, including twenty-three of our brothers and sisters. His most grievous sin has been increasing the enlistment of men to fight against our neighboring country, Woodbine. And to fund his pointless war, he’s increased taxes.”

“Yes, life in Adria was much better when he and Queen Ilona ruled it together,” Tito says.

“I never understood what he saw in Queen Ilona,” Simone admits. “She was a plain-looking forty-year-old widow with two children, who were so unstable that they had to be locked away. He was ten years younger and a playboy King.”

“She was elegant, an outstanding diplomat, and had a great affinity for the plight of the people. The four years that she ruled with Percival were the greatest in our history,” Nestor answers. “Then she ingested poison in a piece of carrot cake that had been tampered with by her sister, Princess Solange. Solange never forgave Ilona for marrying Percival before she had a chance to. The cake didn’t kill her, although the family wished it had. Ilona suffered for three months, leaving Percival to contend with her children.”

“And his interest in helping people dissipated after she died,” Simone notes. “It’s been over a decade since she died. He’s relied too much on Hepburn’s self-serving suggestions and let his stepchildren run amok. Princess Joanna seemed like a good choice as an heir until her husband, Prince Clyde, suffered a heart attack and died. Then things got weird. They buried Clyde, and Joanna ordered him exhumed. From that moment on, she brought his coffin with her everywhere. She still sleeps with his moldering corpse. And yet, she’s next in line to rule Adria.”

“His stepson, Roderick, is no better,” Nestor points out. “He’s short, thin, and weak. They’ve tried to hide that he’s mentally disabled. His one speech in front of Parliament, congratulating Ilona when she married Percival, was a disaster. His tongue is so thick that nobody understood him when he spoke. The King put him in command of a thousand soldiers to fight against Woodbine…”

“And they were routed by three hundred poorly armed men at the Battle of Castlemar,” Simone adds.

“Now he plays piano in a sandbox, composing terrible songs that no one will ever record.”

“They’re proof that you shouldn’t marry your cousin,” Tito says. “And what about Percival and Ilona’s only child together, Princess Alana?”

“She wants to be a veterinarian. She’s fifteen and indifferent to ruling Adria.”

“That leaves Prime Minister Hepburn,” Tito notes. “He’s behind the restrictive laws that have practically turned Adria into a dictatorship. If King Percival dies, he’ll be pulling Princess Joanna’s strings.”

“I’m sure we can find a way to cut the puppet master’s strings,” Nestor replies.

Nestor raises his glass, “Death to the King! Freedom for Adria!”

***

The three conspirators watch the King’s royal train leave the station. Belching smoke, it careens around a corner, picking up speed.

“How much dynamite did you use?” Nestor asks Tito.

“Our operative who works in the railroad maintenance shop placed three bundles in the engine, three under the King’s car, and three under the caboose. They’re set to go off when they cross the trestle. Our fellow activists fifty miles away will know what’s happened and rejoice.”

Simone peers at the train through her binoculars. “It’s crossing now.”

The explosion rocks the train station. The train implodes and the trestle disintegrates, turning into shards of metal.

The crowd of well-wishers that had gathered to see the King off let out a collective gasp.

“Success! Long live the King!” Nestor says triumphantly.

A loud cheer emerges from the crowd.

“Maybe we had more people’s support than we thought,” Simone says.

An oversized limousine pulls up to the station. King Percival and his entourage exit, waving at the relieved crowd.

Percival speaks to the jubilant crowd. “I wanted to stop by the station to thank you for coming to see me off. Please excuse the mix-up. Instead of taking the train, I decided to drive to the conference.”

***

A week later, while heading into the Winhorse Country Club, King Percival tells his driver to stop outside the gates.

A group of protestors is lined up along the fence, waving signs reading, “THE POOR BEFORE POLO!” and “YOU HAVE THE POWER, WE HAVE POVERTY!”

Prime Minister Weldon Hepburn tries to keep King Percival from getting out of the limousine.

“Please, your grace, we’re going to be late.”

“They won’t start the match without me. What’s all this?” he asks a dumpy woman wearing a faded kerchief.

“You closed down the Virgil Senior Center to build another exclusive club for the rich,” the woman answers. “Now, seventy seniors have no place to get their meals or socialize.”

“Is this true, Weldon?”

Hepburn’s shoulders slump as he hurriedly searches for an answer. “We’re… We’re planning to build another senior center.”

“Where? When? Cancel those plans for the private club.”

Turning to the woman, Percival says, “We’re going to build you a bigger, better center.”

The protestors drop their signs, mobbing King Percival to thank him.

***

“Can we trust someone named Socks Siebold?” Nestor asks.

“I can vouch for him. He was in the army. He was dishonorably discharged for refusing to charge the enemy and served a year in prison,” Simone replies. “Socks wrote the King, saying his imprisonment and the war were unjust. He was arrested again for being a subversive. You could say Socks isn’t a fan of King Percival.”

“You’re sure there’s no change in Percival’s schedule this time?” Nestor asks Tito.

“He and Princess Alana go out for lattes every Wednesday at two o’clock. Then they sit for half an hour in Luxembourg Park. Four bodyguards are usually close by, but not close enough to stop a direct attack. All Socks has to do is pretend he’s walking by. Then he turns and… BAM!”

***

Socks feels the weight of his concealed revolver hitting against his side as he briskly walks toward King Percival and Princess Alana.

Socks hesitates when he sees Princess Alana kiss her father on the cheek and put her head on his shoulder.

Her loving gesture makes him think about his father. Socks’s pleasant memory is shattered when he remembers that his father died penniless from black lung, and his older brother had to pick up his shovel to feed the family.

Reaching for the revolver, he drops it. It clanks loudly against the cobblestone pavement.

When Socks looks up, two of the King’s bodyguards are standing on either side of him, their weapons pointed at his face.

***

Nestor slams his empty glass down on the table.

The late-day crowd in the Sidewinder Saloon glances at the trio sitting at the back table.

“Another week, another failed attempt to liberate Adria.”

Simone sips at her gin and tonic. “Socks was executed this morning.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tito replies. “Why did they call him Socks anyway?”

“He liked argyle socks. I bought him three pairs as a thank you for a successful mission. I’ll put them on his grave.”

“It’ll be different this time,” Nestor says confidently. “Percival is having dinner with his court and the members of parliament at six o’clock. We can wipe the slate clean.”

Tito guzzles his beer. “Who’s doing the job?”

“Elvis MacManus.”

“The guy’s an Elvis Presley impressionist. Won’t he be a bit… obvious?” Simone asks.

“Our girl on the inside will sneak him in through the palace’s service entrance. Besides, who’s going to suspect that the King of Rock and Roll is an assassin?”

***

Elvis MacManus sets the timer. Closing the lid of the iron box containing the dynamite, he carefully places it in the corner of the security guard’s quarters, a floor below the King’s dining hall.

“All clear?” Elvis asks his accomplice, Priscilla, one of the King’s many personal assistants.

Peering around the door, Priscilla gives Elvis the okay sign.

The pair walks down the long hallway, exiting through the service entrance. They walk hand-in-hand like a young couple in love until they reach Luxembourg Park, where Socks’s failed assassination occurred the week before.

Slicking back his jet-black pompadour, Elvis pulls a remote detonator out of his jacket, casually singing, “Well it’s a one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, now blow cat blow!”

***

Prime Minister Hepburn paces across the palace’s cobblestone driveway.

“Where is he?” he asks his nervous assistant.

“The Princess was competing in a horse show. I just got a text that she won. She had to make an acceptance speech when she received her award. The press is taking pictures of Princess Alana and the King, and they’re signing autographs.”

Hepburn’s hawklike features twist into a frown. “That clueless boob. Doesn’t he realize our grip over the peasants is slipping more and more every day? Playing daddy while he should be displaying an iron fist doesn’t help.”

The Prime Minister and his assistant hit the ground when the palace’s first floor explodes, sending debris whistling by their heads.

***

“A cat has fewer lives,” Nestor laments, gulping down his scotch.

Looking at her phone, Simone scans news reports about the bombing.

“Twelve dead, twenty-six wounded. At least the King’s political support is decimated… Aww…”

“What’s wrong?” Nestor asks.

“Princess Alana made a statement about the bombing.”

Simone shows Nestor the news clip.

The innocent-looking, doe-eyed princess looks into the camera, her lower lip quivering.

“I love my father, and I don’t understand why everyone else doesn’t. Perhaps if we all sat down together to iron out our differences, we could solve this mess and get on with making Adria the paradise it was meant to be.”

“From the mouths of babes,” Simone comments.

***

Ten days after the latest attempt on his life, King Percival stands stiffly at the dais in his throne room. Clearing his throat, he looks at the battered and bruised members of his court and parliament.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be your king anymore. I’ve spoken with each of you individually, listened to the pleas of my subjects, the unbalanced ravings of my stepchildren, and Prime Minister Hepburn’s self-serving hogwash. In the end, I based my decision on how my continuing to reign would affect my family, especially my daughter, Alana.

I have decided to abdicate not only for Alana’s sake, but for all the daughters, sons, wives, and husbands who say they’re suffering under my reign.

We live in an age of wonder – texting, Instagram, and Facebook provide instant gratification. But war, crime, hunger, and greed continue to drive us apart. I don’t want to be thought of or become the person who helped them thrive. Our lives should be peaceful and pleasant, but we… I… lost the ability to be compassionate and understanding a long time ago.

I’m proud of the advancements Queen Ilona and I made in education, agriculture, and health during our reign together. And yes, I became a bitter dupe for unscrupulous advisors when she passed away. After the umpteenth attempt on my life ten days ago, I looked at Alana and saw that she was trying to hide her tears from me. It was then that I knew what I had to do.

I have involved us in a senseless war with Woodbine, a stalemate that has decimated the next generation of scholars, business titans, and artists. I promise to offer aid to families who have lost their children or have been persecuted, imprisoned, or deported because of the war.

Before I step down, I’ll see to it that the war ends, and every serviceman and woman comes home. I’ll see to it that the roads are rebuilt, and our industries thrive.

I offer a pardon to the members of the Socialist People’s Party, so that we may sit down together and discuss ways to improve our government.

I promise to abdicate when the wrongs I’ve inflicted are put right and the name Adria once again means freedom for all. After I leave, there’ll be an election and a new leader, a president, will be chosen by the people.

Thank you, one and all, for your service to the crown. I’m now going to meet my daughter for our weekly walk in the park.”

***

“It’s Wednesday. He’ll be in the park with Princess Alana,” Nestor says.

Simone checks her phone, huffing.

“What’s the matter?” Tito asks.

“I forgot to charge my phone. It’s dead.”

“I didn’t bring mine,” Tito replies. “If we get picked up, I don’t want the King’s men to be able to track my past movements.”

Simone and Tito match Nestor stride for stride as they enter the park.

“You’re taking a big chance doing this yourself,” Simone says.

“I want it done right. And if I’m to head our new socialist government, then I have to show I deserve to be its leader.”

Nestor pats the revolver hidden in his jacket.

The trio stands across from the bench where Percival and Alana are sipping their lattes and laughing.

Nestor notes that Percival’s bodyguards are lax in guarding him.

“Ah, an open window,” Nestor says, advancing toward Percival.

Nestor slows his gait, pretending to be interested in a group of pigeons, when an elderly couple walks up to Percival. They both shake his hand, and the woman kisses him on his cheek.

Running at Percival, Nestor pulls out his revolver, firing off five shots.

Alana shrieks, falling to her knees in front of her stricken father, who reaches out and gives her a final hug.

Nestor is surrounded by Percival’s guards, who point their weapons at his head, daring him to move.

Dropping is gun, Nestor yells, “A fitting end to tyranny!”

The people in the park panic, running haphazardly in all directions. A woman picks up her poodle, yelling, “Some lunatic just killed Percival Pappalardi!”

Simone and Tito back away. Turning to run, their escape route is blocked by a group of men in soccer uniforms who hold them at bay for the police.

One of the men shakes his head.

“Why?” he asks.

“For liberty!” Simone snaps.

“You fool! Don’t you know he abdicated an hour ago?”

***

A pair of incensed security guards push Nestor and Simone down the hallway to the main hall. Bound in chains, they can only attempt to shuffle along more quickly.

“Your new queen would like to have a word with you,” a burly guard says harshly.

“Something tells me she’s not going to invite us to the Spring Ball,” Simone comments.

Bedecked in a velvet gown, wearing a jewel-encrusted crown, and holding a diamond-tipped scepter, Queen Alana glares at Nestor and Simone.

“I thought you said killing Percival would end the monarchy, that we’d have socialism,” Simone says to Nestor.

The guard pushes her. “Your cowardly friend’s bullets eliminated that possibility.”

Queen Alana’s once sweet voice is chilled and icy. “Your third accomplice, Rumsford ‘Tito’ Quisling, was hard to break, but before he died, he gave us the names of more than two dozen of your conspirators. They’ll give us the rest of your party’s names. By tomorrow, your entire traitorous clan will be exterminated… My father offered you amnesty. He offered to work with you, to listen to your concerns, and to make amends for his wrongdoings. But you took his olive branch and spat on it. Well, there’s a special place in my court for you.”

She points to the wall behind them.

Prime Minister Hepburn is hanging from the wall, crucified.

“Your misguided desire for a socialist government and Hepburn’s deceits killed my father. My father, not you, was the greatest hope for Adria. I said there was a special place for you in my court, and you’ll have it. You’re going to hang next to Prime Minister Hepburn.”