The Dying King
Hans and Salvador stood at the end of the dying king’s bed. It was a very large bed in a very large room with very high ceilings, so high it was as if there were no ceiling at all, just great dark, empty, endless space. Salvador stood with his head back, squinting up into the blackness.
“He was a great, big man,” Hans said softly.
“He’s not dead yet,” Salvador whispered back.
“No, I mean he’s fat. Obese.”
“Well that’s rude.”
“I’m rude? There’s a famine going on out there and they’re going to use his death to minimize the famine: see what happens when you eat too much? It’s not good for you. You die. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Hans was right. The king’s bedroom had a giant window that gave a long, wide view of the kingdom’s formerly lush and fertile lands. They were now beige. Desert beige. All alone was one dead tree with a broken branch that looked like a sad stick creature waving goodbye, cold cruel world.
Besides Hans and Salvador, there were two doctors in the room, one posted on either side of the king’s bed. They were women and looked bored. Salvador leaned toward the one closest to him.
“Excuse me,” he whispered louder, “How long do you think this is going to take?”
“As long as it takes, sir.”
“But he’s definitely dying?”
“I’m not God, but in my professional opinion, yes, he’s dying.”
The king let out a long, slow moan. It seemed a bit on the nose.
“I’m sorry,” the other doctor said, “but who are you two?”
“We’re his murderers,” Hans said.
“We’re here to take back the kingdom,” Salvador added cheerfully.
Outside, it began to rain and the tree suddenly sprouted a leaf.
