King Bouillie
(BooWee)
“An Ancient Greek
Tragedy”
(of sorts)
An Original Story
by
Kim L Sellers
Kim L
Sellers
Charlotte
(Noda), NC 28205
Preface
Not so far-flung from paper and pen, when Euterpe, the
goddess of poetry and music and one of nine sisters, nine muses who were born of
Zeus and Mnemosyne; not so far-flung when wandering sages and soothsayers, like
hand delivered newspapers, shared their stories by word of mouth to gathered
tribes, sitting speechless around ancient booming fires; not so far-flung that
the past, present and future as told through speech and song, weaved and
reweaved the sinew of mankind’s soul, forever changing the fabric of our lives;
this is when our story begins and ends.
Chorus:
“It was Ahasver
who first told the story of King Bouillie, the ancient ruler of the lands of
Roon; let us listen now as Ahasver speaks with guile, wit and prophecy.”
Ahasver:
Once there was a
land called Roon where their king, King Bouillie with poisonous scepter ruled;
his armies of more than ten thousand Roons protecting Roon Castle of three
score, plus ten stable grooms.
The Roons had conquered kingdoms untold:
the lands of the Jumblies, Aldora, Pereline, and Eirle to name but a few; all
their Kings’ heads permanently interned in King Bouillie’s magnificent trophy room.
King Bouillie had led his army over oceans
and seas; across continents that once were too far to see; extending friendship,
kinship and fists full of entreaties, none of which were worth the papyrus they
were scribbled on, because King Bouillie’s sole intention was conquest and ruinous
war.
Many years later, when he ruthlessly ruled
all known lands, King Bouillie began acting cuckoo mad until his court jester (who
was crazier than he), suggested his Lord build a great tower as a tribute to
him; but the King thought that “him” meant the jester, not he, so he failed to
see the humor in it and shouted, “Off with his head!”
Woe to the poor misunderstood jester and
his innocent faux pas, because at that very moment, the King’s royal guards
obediently decapitated him, sending King’s court into a hideous guffaw. But then, to the shock of everyone present,
the guards with drawn swords began to fight over the jester’s silly hat; pea-green
in color and adorned with moons and stars; it looked more like a limp
cornucopia except for the bell at its end.
“Cease, cease!” King Bouillie cried and
then quickly snatched the jester’s hat; after all, he was King and the hat was Divine
Domain; it also was an act of self-respect because the King never liked playing
the fool; that’s why he had hired one and dressed him so cool. But then, not
waiting for another head to roll, King Bouillie quickly said as though the idea
had burst from his own head, conveniently
ignoring, the who, what and where of which it was originally said,
“I will build a great tower,” King
Bouillie, decreed. “A tower so high that
it will reach into the sky, where I will share the throne with Zeus and
Mnemosyne, marry their nine daughters and then when I’m done with each one by
one, I’ll throw them away just for fun.”
A royal guard, interrupted the King’s
speech but was careful to whisper into his one good ear (the King had lost the
other during a very bad year); as the guard leaned closer, without a touch, he
reminded his Lord of the rumored riches that laid half way between here to
there, where untold riches were ripe for the snare.
“Oh,” cried the King, his memory jogged, “where
Giants weave armor and weapons from golden fleece, using only their tiny, Giant
toes.”
“My Lord,” the guard replied, while bowing
and quickly returning to the King’s side; praying his adroitness would save his
hide.
“Yes!” King Bouillie cried, the entire royal court
taken by surprise, with large question marks hiding their faces because they
hadn’t heard a word of what was said, between guard and their adored King, but
in lieu of that they all hedged their bets and cheered the King to save their
courtly necks.
We now turn, Ahasver
continued,
to the gods; who have been watching the crazy goings-on from high upon their
Olympus lair. Where, both Mnemosyne, Zeus’ wife and their daughter Euterpe, could
not believe the audacity of King Bouillie’s arrogance. It was one thing to think he could share
Zeus’ throne, but, to openly declare that he’d marry, abuse and then
heartlessly discard their daughters as though they were nothing more than earthly
trash, well, to say the least Mnemosyne patience had worn too thin to bare her
weight for another moment. Then to seal
King Bouillie’s fate, Euterpe sobbed,
“Mother, please call Zeus, I’d die before marring
that ridiculous bully king.”
Mnemosyne assured her daughter that that would
never happen, it wasn’t in the cards. Immediately she summoned her husband, Zeus,
who appeared not a moment later, with his typical ardor; wearing god-like golden
amour that rattled the room.
“Yes, my dear queen, I have been watching
too and I will put an end to the trumpeting buffoon.”
The very next day as King Bouillie was
about to break the ground for his magnificent tower, a royal messenger delivered
to the crown, a note containing disconcerting news. An enormous army of infidels had made camp on
an adjacent plain on the river Roon. King
Bouillie carefully considered the ramifications but knowing Roon castle’s impregnable
fortifications, decided to sleep on the dilemma; believing the gods as they had
always done, would protect his Roon lands and boundless kingdoms.
But alas, when he awoke the next morn,
King Bouillie came face to face with an infidel army, over fifty-thousand strong;
but the worst yet, and compounding the humiliation was that they were adorned
in amour and weapons, all of which were woven with gold.
“My god!”
The King exclaimed, it’s those Giant weavers, with their tiny, Giant
toes.”
The battle was over in the blink of an eye,
King Bouillie’s ten-thousand Roon army had laid down their weapons, with an
uncharacteristic collective swoon.
Now chained and deposed as King, Bouillie
stared blankly at the Infidel Chief, who was tall and dark and massively built,
with long black hair, narrow eyes and sparkling white teeth that bared themselves
in a victorious smile.
Bouillie saw none of these attributes; his
entire attention was focused on the Chieftain’s scythe-like sword, which was
large and deadly looking; a clear metaphor for the death of a King.
“Do you have anything to say for
yourself?” asked the infidel Chieftain.
“Yes,” Bouillie said, “please tell me what
have I done to deserve this untimely sleep?”
Ahasver: That my children,
is the end of our Greek tragedy; now go to sleep and let its moral guide you
through your night-filled dreams. May
you all be safe.
Chorus: “Those were the tyrant
Bouillie’s last words; now let it be known to tyrants, et al., that those who
live by the sword, die by the sword. That
the gods are watching our earthly goings-on and retribution shall be theirs and
only theirs.”
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