No Advantage

Art on the Highline: The Swallower Swallowed by Jon Rafman

The Ruler of a small but pleasant realm was gathering her things in preparation of a trip to The Great Scrutiny Council, where she had not been since her move to her new realm.

The offering she took to the Council, sponsored by the Emperor (her boss to the third power), was prepared by her competent new advisors following the "Best We Can Do on Short Notice" protocol. 

The Council Chamber lay beyond the Troll Bridge and was where all the weighty matters of the kingdom were chewed over. 

The Ruler put everything she needed in a small satchel and headed over to the Yessir Yessir Highway.

Joining her were the Ghost, her boss to the first power and the Great Troll, her boss to the second power. The latter grumbled the entire way, dragging his huge stinking feet and muttering under his breath. Foul drops of acidic spittle fell from his half-open mouth, hissing on contact with the paving stones and leaving corroded pock marks.

The Ghost was silent. His face was immobile as a stone; his eyes almost completely closed. Were he not walking at her side, the Ruler would have thought he was asleep or even dead.

In a departure from the usual, the Ruler and those with her were ushered in immediately upon their arrival at the Chambers. Normally they would be subject to the "Wait in the Hallway for Several Hours" protocol, where they cooled their heels and pretended to have things to say to one another while the Council deliberated great matters.

Once in the chamber, the Ruler saw that the Council was down to a fraction of its numbers. Advisors to the Council, anxious for the meeting to start, invoked the magic spell "Quorum, quorum, quorum."

Directly across the table from the Ruler and the Ghost sat the Emperor. Gregarious and jovial, the Emperor joked with the other members of the Council, avoiding at all costs any acknowledgement of the people seated across from him.

The quorum incantation worked. A fourth member appeared and the deliberations began.

The Ghost spoke first. Then the Ruler. Their speeches were short and to the point. They invoked no special magic, acknowledging that they had no claim to the Goose that Lays the Golden Egg. Theirs was a modest and obvious proposal; only a fool would think this was not a necessary and prudent thing to do.

The Ruler and the Ghost had their say; it was now the Council's turn. Protocol requires that Council members repeat what they have heard as if it were their own idea that has occurred to them just this minute. Protocol also requires that every Council member take three times as long to make their point as it took to tell them. Finally, the protocol requires that every successive comment must both repeat all that has been said before and take longer to say it.

The Ruler was not sorry that Council numbers were low.

The Ruler knew that at Council, only the first three words of each harangue mattered. She saved her attention for the start of every speech. And three times she heard "I support this."

The Emperor spoke last. The Ruler hoped that, with the glowing support of his council colleagues, the Emperor would be gracious in victory. 

But the Emperor's brow was furrowed. His face a mask of pain. He spoke of his displeasure with the proposal. It was beside the point he said. It did not come from credible sources he said. It would have been better if it were completely different and achieved a different objective.

After this damning indictment of his own proposal, the Ruler, the Ghost and the Great Troll all held their breath and wondered if the Emperor would block it. 

Instead, a canny Council Advisor slid a piece of paper under the Emperor's arm.

"Will you sign?" she asked.

Distracted and grumpy still from the many failings of the world, the Emperor shrugged and impatiently signed his approval of the proposal he had just maligned.

[To be continued ....]

*************

To complete last week's descriptions of retirement parties, I have to admit I was mostly wrong in my prediction of the details of the party for the petroleum industry lobbyist.

First off, I had the location wrong. It wasn't a "rich people only" club on King Street. It was at the Royal Canadian Military Institute on University Avenue, in a room lined with hand guns and other projectile-flinging weapons. There were about 15-20 people. The scant food offering was dreadful - deep-fried dreck of the same sort I used to serve at the Sargent's Mess in Trenton when I worked there forty-five years ago. And, while I offered up a hand shake, I did get a hug and a kiss on the cheek from the retiree.

The one thing I had right: there was an open bar.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen