King on the Throne

The golden autumn envelope lies on the last standing table in the Cafeteria. The remaining tables were folded against the south wall. Their undersides showed the gum and phallic elementary drawings to no one. The emblem is clear as day, and it's the crest of the Royal Family.

"You messed up somewhere, Arthur. They are probably calling for your head", Arthur Crawford's soft voice echoes in the empty Cafeteria. Pacing to and frow his hands mindlessly pulling and wrapping around his ponytail. Stopping mid-step, he pauses. "Don't be ridiculous. He would be in the Royal Guards' custody. Bonded in chains and tossed into some hole if that was the case. Facing the sealed envelope an arm's length away, he stares at it with vigor. He has fallen for a few students' pranks before. They won't get him this time. He wipes his hands on his deep ocean blue coveralls, brushing away some deceased strands of hair caught in his clutches. Is it really for him? He never gets mail, but it was in his job mailbox, which doesn't usually have a lot of action, other than a paystub every other week and maybe an occasional newsletter from the Custodial Order for the Centre for the past eight years.

The envelope felt light in his hands; he breathed heavily. No ticking, he notices. So far, so good.

Cracking the royal seal gives him quite a flutter. There is a single parchment. By golly gosh, there is his name. He has never seen his name written so beautifully. How the ink flows up one end of the letters to the next. He takes a moment to gather himself. Tears will make the ink run.

His eyes run along the lines of scripted letters. His legs give out, and falling to the floor, he lies on his back. Exhaling while feeling the stickiness of the freshly waxed floor pull on his coveralls, he relaxes. He has been requested, royally, to attempt a Position of Cleanliness at the Palace. He isn't sure what that means, but cleaning is his business, and his business brother is good.

                                                                           ***

He arrived early for his appointment. He was searched, then stripped searched, only to be searched again. A few weeks ago, there he was, the ghost of a janitor. One day he was soaking up kindergarten vomit with a pail and kitty litter, scrubbing crudely drawn anatomy on the bathroom stalls. Now, now, he stands in the gilded foyer of the Royal Highness himself. The balloon of self-aggrandizing is quickly popped when a voice from behind calls out at him.

           "Mr. Crawford, please follow me. You are to be given your supplies and a first assignment," commands this sharp voice.

Before Arthur can turn around, the voice is now in front of him, a small man in a tuxedo, partly bald ironically waddling like a penguin, matched perfectly with his uniform.

           "Excuse me, sir, I am not sure what I am…"

The penguin of a man cuts him off, "You will be given specific instructions at the precise time as necessary. If you do not feel up to par, the door is where you left it." Arthur struggles to keep pace even though he is near twice the more petite man's height.

"Yes, Sir"

                                                                              ***

They find their way through the twist and turns of the Palace to what appears to be the Royal stables. There are no horses, yet they have been here, as evidenced by what they have left behind.

           "I am Master Ludwig Guild. Continue to address me as “Sir” or “Master Guild”. Your assignment is to cleanse this…." Master Guild swallows hard, trying to maintain his composure of authority in the filth and pungent stench. "area of which has been of great use. It is to be spotless. Fit for a king," Ludwig smirks snarky. "Your tools of the trade are in the closet there, good sport, and carry on as you may." With that, Master Guild turned on his heels and made his way back the way they came. Art wasn't sure, but he believed he saw the good Master was pinching his nose.

           The noxious fumes did not bother Arthur. He was overcome with joy. Here he had a blank canvas, well, actually filthy vile canvas. But beside him was a mop and bucket, his brushes. "Cleanliness is next to Godliness," he prays to himself, and off he goes.

 Without regard for his cleanliness, he is down on hands and knees. Shoveling and scrubbing. He is filling bins of waste faster than staff can replenish the containers. He is hitting every nook and cranny of the stables. He rinses the floor and begins anew.

           After many hours, Master Guild appears. He was looking equally refreshed and shocked. It is spotless. He can see his distorted reflection in the steel hinges: no fecal particles or slightest evidence of neglect.

           "Ahem," Guild clears his throat, drawing the attention of Arthur lost in his art still, a toothbrush in hand scrubbing away unseen filth. "It has been approximately nine hours. I am sure you are near finished and quite famished."

On cue, Arthurs stomach rumbles, he lost track of time, "I can keep going, sir, I am never quite done. Just putting on a final polish".

"Don't be a fool." He claps his hands, beckoning in a cart of food. "He is your dinner. Consider it payment" The food is tossed on the freshly clean floor: steak, onions still steaming slide to Arthur at his knees. Fine silver utensils wrapped in white lace are placed at his side.

Looking at Guild with a confused look, "Sir?"

"To test your confidence in your completed task, you must eat the food from the stable floor you just cleaned," he states, raising his chin.

Bowing his head, Arther proceeds to cut into his steak, an excellent juicy fine cut of meat. In the center where he was raised and resided, meat was rare, the government-provided in a can on Mondays. One can of beef for two to four months. "Cleanliness is next to Godliness," the voice inside calls to him. He is ravenous. His hunger takes hold, and he forgets where he is. Nawing and Chewing. The meat is inhaled as soon as it is liquified. "That's enough!" barks Master Guild. "Lad, you have passed. You have the makings of a Royal Cleanser. Your duties start tomorrow. You'll be shown to your room. First, you, yourself, will be sanitized, sterilized."

                                    ***

His coveralls were removed and burned in front of him. He was stripped searched again. Scrubbed roughly by many hands, his body nearly raw. His head shaven. All this by being told what an honor has been bestowed upon him. He feels no more dignity. What is honor? Given a room with a cot and white coveralls, he sleeps deeply.

Soon, or so it seems, a harsh knock awakens him at his door. The door swings open before he can bring his fee around the bed. It is a new face with Master Guild. It appears to be a. a Royal Guard. Arthur's heart sinks. He knows he is to be executed. He should have scrubbed harder. Looking down, his fingertips now raw, new callouses in his palms.

As if reading his mind, Master Guild steps in front of the guard, "My dear boy, do not fear he is here to assure safety to his royal highness the king while you complete your duties."

"The King?" are the only words that can fall out of Arthurs lacked mouth.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, you have the divine privilege of cleansing the King daily, as he, um...evacuate his necessity first thing in the morn, and as needed."

Arthur sitting for a moment ponders this.

"You are a royal ass wiper, you puddle of pus," exclaims the Captain of the Guards

"Don't be so crude, Marcus. I forget you are not custom to our standards as you lived where?Where is it is you came from again? This Highness cannot be bothered, or risk illness with be concerned with such menial tasks."

Arthur simply nods. Upper classes could use paper to cleanse themselves, others their hands in water. Rinse and repeat.

The Master continues, "Finally but nearly as important as the prior instructions, you must cleanse the majesty once he stands from his Throne."

           "Throne, sir?" Arthur asks

           "The toilet, crapper, the john, the can you nitwit!" screams Marcus

Guild places his arm across Marcus' chest to prevent him from advancing on Arthur.

 "Dear boy, the royal doctors must be able to obtain a clean sample of what exits the King every morning. From that, they use their sorcery to predict the health, safety, and future of our Lord King". Master Guild puts a pocket watch from his vest, stiffening. "It is time we were off to see to the King. I am certain he has to make in great haste."

***

Through halls upon halls and a door after a door, they finally enter the Throne Room, as it is affectionately known. Pristine marble floors small circles intertwining each other smooth like walking on a frozen lake. A long rectangular window faces the rising sunlight shine shining on the Throne itself. An unobstructed view of the palace gardens flows eastward to the gates and so forth to the outer realm. A Golden chandelier hangs above crystals dangling tear drops.

           The Throne itself made of gold is slightly elevated as when who sit on its eyes are level with one standing in front of them. The lid oval covering the base is wrapped in velvet. The bowl holds no water to dilute the deposit in result preserving it for later inspections. In place of a water tank, there is a backing displaying the royal crest.

           The large oak door opens directly behind the elevated toilet. A swarm of Guards emerges, making a pathway around the throne. His majesty appears in a purple robe with an encrusted crown upon his head. Upon passing through the doorway, teardrops, he lets his robe fall to the white marble floor. His physique is less than desirable. Large. Very Large. Long hair greasy hairflows down his face, mingling with his unkempt grey speckled beard. Cautiously he climbs the steps, placing his naked rump on the velvet seat. His eyes spot Arthurs bald head. "A new royal cleanser?" Marcus shoves Arthur forward, stumbling still bowing. Arthur replies simply, "Yes, your highness." His voice carries barely above a whisper.

Master Guild passes him a silver buck with a lufa. Whispering to him as he does, "after the deposit has been collected by the doctor, you must cleanse the royal, quickly and efficiently. He will then be dried and powdered.

The rising sun shines gleefully on Arthur Crawford. He smiles wide as the King releases with a forceful grunt.