The Despot saw the post on Y at the after party, and, salivating, began to dream. He saw himself seated on a crimson cushion with a frilly edge, in a golden carriage which looked like it had been made of golden twigs and sprayed gold, pulled along by eighteen mythical horses, controlled by two gorillas in a suit.
He didn’t know where this image came from, but we have a pretty good idea.
He dreamed of crowds waving little flags, of trumpets glinting in rows of military might or might not. The soldiers wore bright, bright costumes, with immense furry and feathery hats, so that the enemy could see them coming, they arranged themselves in square cliques and complex battalions, which is a type of onion.
He dreamed that the swift pointy jets, pretending that they weren’t lethal weapons for a day, streaked past, trailing meaningful colours, which the small children enjoyed with hands over their ears. He revelled in the adulation and obsequious nature of his attendants, who were not allowed to raise their eyes or cease from bowing and scraping the barrel from whence the Despot came.
As the chariot passed through the crowd, the destination, the culmination, the grandest of grand cathedral mosque temples palaces, came onto view. Bigger than the biggest and covered in golden doodads. As the Despot alighted, twelve pretty children came forth to hold up his furry cloak train above the dust, which had been cleared and polished by endless retainers of the lower orders.
Entering the coronational enclosure, he would be ushered like a mysterious, into the high place, where choirs sung complex semi religious articles from the defunct constitution. The sounds of insane organ pipes bouncing off the gargoyles and entering his ears unannounced.
And there, he dreamed that the great crown would await, like the skyline of the kremlin, onion domes, with a soft, blood red edging and gems stolen from ancient emperors, ready to be laid upon his troubled brow. The ceremonial big gold stick, borrowed for the day from its place in a glass cabinet high above the Stick Market and the mystic Orb of Power were lowered to rest on his outstretched knees.
Now I am king of the world, he thought, And everyone will love me and say that I am the best ever, or I will excombobulate them in a sticky mess without floats.
Now the trap was set and a great hall of dizzying patterns combined had been solved from papier mâché and solvents.
The Despot, travelling in Air Fierce 2, divided the globe with his vapour trail and arrived on Argh Island. Everyone dressed up as reporters, to make him feel at home, but there was no lead in their pencils or internet connection. They were just there to lure him in. They shouted meaningless questions at him, which he answered without reference to reality or coherence, they shouted louder and louder until he was convinced that he was the object of their desire, before entering into the pattern trap without noticing its instability and flimsy cardboard sides and insubstantial nature.
Once inside, still living some dream of magnificence in his head, he was seated on a kitchen chair draped with an ornate curtain on a high dais. A crown of fruit, mostly kiwis and pomegranates, was placed up his head and the golden globe and sceptre, both fashioned by the effects department from sculpted polystyrene and therefore suspiciously light, were gently placed in his claws.
Just wait there a moment whilst we organise the adulation, said the attendants and they left, closing the door softly behind them.
The door, covered with the same fractal patterns as the walls, blended in perfectly, and anyway he wasn’t looking. Living in a dream world of adulation had become so complete that the Despot could not see the grass for the lawn, the wood for the trees, the tear drops from the ocean, the fish from the pie, the grapes for the vines or phantasy from reality.
And so it was done, the Despot remained seated for a thousand, unable to comprehend and the world was able to regenerate a little and mend the damage, the scratched surfaces, poverty and maladies, suffering and inequality. The unwanted wars and conflicts, the ridiculous tariff organisation, which the despot had clearly not understood, until everyone felt a little more stable and plans could be made for the horses, who in recent episodes had become nervous.
The elephants could go back to walking in rows, the poorer people could get a little aid from the mightiest, the condors could go back to their mountain eerie and the world trade organisation could convene a conference to reshuffle world trade into some kind of stable order.
The news outlets, having become addicted to shouting and eliciting emotional responses from bereaved parents, could shut the up, and go back to reporting the news.
A sigh of relief captured our hearts.
The Guardians of the Cave 