And it came to pass after this that Bryan the King began to clash with his little nephew who was a toddler named Frank Booth Ray, because both of these men aspired to own the Forests of the Night.
Now, when I say that they clashed, I do not mean that the warriors of one side feuded with the warriors of the other; for neither the King nor his nephew employed any private mercenaries, as they were both pacifists who shunned violence and eschewed physical combat. The only weapon that either of them believed in was the feathered arrow, for they had seen their friend Cupid shoot folks this way, and, rather than expiring upon impact, a stricken individual simply became punch-drunk with love.
But King Bryan’s toddler nephew Frank Booth Ray did not understand that Cupid’s munitions were wholly imaginary; so, once upon a time, the lad toddled out to the Friendly Neighborhood Big-Box Ammo Shop and made a beeline for the fletcher, thinking that he was acting responsibly: He bought a quiver of lacquered hardwood, poison-tipped arrows.
Now Bryan the King was riding his horse, The Real Pegasus, between some trees, when his nephew Frank Booth Ray, the toddler who had only in the last couple years learned how to walk, stepped forth from a pile of leaves, aimed his crossbow and struck the King. Thus, King Bryan’s heart was riven and began to beat very much differently than it had until now. It was as if his heart was a mud hut that contained two competing female percussionists, each thumping out a rhythm of her own (and their tempos differed also) — for these drummers each were practitioners of True Voodoo, and they knew that whichever one of them stopped her drum solo first would forfeit her right to collect royalty payments on the song.
The Real Pegasus (Bryan’s horse), seeing that her passenger had been rendered indisposed by a mere child, reared up on her hind legs and whinnied, causing the body of the King to slide off her back: and Bryan landed in the same leaf pile whence the murderous toddler had sprung.
The assassin Frank Booth Ray therewith mounts The Real Pegasus and taps the “Extend Wings” button. This was the first time the light of day had ever seen such horse-feathers; for the creature’s former jockey had neglected to utilize her flying function. (King Bryan never did study the instruction manual.) So the horse and her new cavalier began to soar thru the heavens. Then, when gliding above that famous city, The Real Pegasus pissed all over London. And the Londoners marveled, saying one to another: “This is the clearest rain we’ve had in years.”
Then Frank Booth Ray decided to one-up Icarus and give the inventor Daedalus the middle finger by navigating a path not simply too close but directly into the blazing sun. So little Frank Booth Ray cracked the whip (this was the same whip used by Jesus when he vanquished the moneylenders: it was handed down from generation to generation until it reached my little nephew) and The Real Pegasus joined her will to the boy’s volition, and they set off on a trajectory that had the center of the sun as it ultimate destination. You think I’m joking? Look at this:
The flying horse and her tiny rider cruise straight at the solar face and blacken its eye. Then the whole sun turns blood-red for an entire sennight, and it begins to tremble. The people on Earth now fear that they will lose their source of gold. And they are correct; for, lo: on the day after the last one, the sun explodes into an ashen cloud of dead, gray spores, like a puffball-mushroom. Its smoke is disgusting and causes the Solar System to stink.
So Planet Jupiter decides to leave. It lifts up its skirts and deviates from its timeworn orbit, until it finds a superior star to join the dance of.
MORAL
It is preferable to sacrifice a lifetime supply of omelets in order to gain one eternal egg. For sometimes multi-wrongs DO make a right.
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