The Spectacle

The Shadow Man watched, unimpressed by the affairs of the civil despots of Narrowhaven. For long he came and go as he pleased, as no law of these would-be tyrants would bind him or reduce him to the passive despotism they proposed. His hand stroked the coarse stubble decorating his jawline, the brown glove making a callous glide against the fleshy terrain, offering the feint whisper of a handsaw against a plank. It could not be long pretended that he was stricken to apathy, but in these moments his eyes rolled back in their sockets far enough that he might very well see the inside of his skull if there was a shred of light to creep in the enclosure.

So many laws passed or, in Narrowhaven’s particular case, decreed by blind or ignorant monarchs, regents, stand-ins, or whatever other form of tyrant currently or could rule. More important is that nay one of any of these men or women could have been elected in any form of democratic process. The will of the people is always ignored in these cases, thought the Shadow Man. These laws decreed could not possibly be enforced on the will of these citizens whom solemn and idiosyncratic vow must have been of at least two things: stupidity, or negligence. The former was more obvious than the latter, but the latter is nonetheless of equal potency. So stupid were they to believe they were protected by these despots, and so negligent of there own freedom that they would not inquire above such inane and absurd dictatorship.

Long as he watched indeed, with not impoverished desire to fill for such inept creatures. This sort of despotism has a way of tearing itself apart, with no intervention necessary. It is the cunning dictator that needs a revolution. The stupid or ignorant kind usually eat themselves, which is the sort that fathers the city of Narrowhaven. One thing the Shadow Man was convinced, that either the Gods were ignorant of this detail, apathetic of it, or too lacking in ordinary wit or intelligence to intervene. Of course it could be all three, the Shadow Man mused. Probably the latter of all, a step further he calculated.

The history of the city was filled with poison and bloodshed, and none the wiser to discover that it was the very nature of these individuals that was supplying the necessary ingredients for such inadequacies of government. The throne, if it could be called that, had experienced the physical constitution of so many different buttocks, it may forever be tainted by the flatulence of an antecedent of retardation. Merrick Godfrey had forgiven himself the title of King, as was previously known to the Shadow Man, for a new despot named Frederick. The Shadow Man chuckled to himself at the sheer indignity of it all.

Henry had informed him of the transition, and could spare little detail. How typical of Kings, to conduct private deals in private rooms behind guarded doors. All the while the guards they command and people the reign over are ignorant of the transition, and forced to acknowledge the fealty of both. Merrick, a new captain of the guard now, would be almost useless at this venture. The rightful buttocks for the throne was the perfectly round and red of the former Duchess, the Scarlet Witch, or the Crimson Succubus, whatever one other might wish to call her. Things could have gone more smoothly for her, but that was not satisfactory of the conditions either.

The next step would involve engaging the new despot, and if there a step beyond that, only time would tell the tale.

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