His Majesty’s Overhaul
by Paul Cesarini
part 1
High Lord Grithromax the Mighty sat slouched on his throne, fidgeting, annoyed that he of all people had to wait. His servants, attendants, concubines, concubines-in-waiting, greater and lesser sycophants, and sycophants-in-waiting buzzed around his dark blue frame, making last-minute preparations before the big campaign.
Why they had to launch it from this particular Hall of Victory, in this particular palace, he’d never know. It certainly wasn’t his best palace. That would be the one on Gibbon-3. It wasn’t even his second best. It was maybe his fifth best, on a good day. He grudgingly acknowledged that it was a little closer to the system he’d planned to conquer next, and that this throne — made from hardened Corbanite and quite angular and stylish for this part of the galaxy — was maybe his third best, but that was about it.
After he was adorned with his sacred robes, battle armor, and weaponry, he would stride out onto his balcony, raise his sacred Devastation Hammer high, and announce to the troops that the invasion was a go. The whole lot was there, all 350 million of them, no doubt looking splendid as the twin suns shone off their helmets and fusion cleavers. They all waited, patiently standing in formation along with regiments of Bio-cephalopod Vertical take-off Carriers, Autonomous Mobile Exsanguination Drones, and at least one division of Semi-sentient Spinal Electrocution Wasps.
He didn’t mind making anyone wait for him, what with him being the big boss and any of their lives forfeit at his whim. However, keeping all those hypercruisers parked at high altitude like that cost a fortune, and Grithromax was a notorious tightwad. He once made a defeated general wait two full cycles before his ion-disembowelment for no other reason than the rates being cheaper then. And then he’d turned around and charged the man’s family for the broadcast rights and the cleanup. He held celebratory conquest feasts with his Grand Council, left each with itemized bills, then hit them with surge rates for valet megacarrier parking. He regifted instruments of torture, though he at least had them cleaned first.
Three of his attendants, all the same shade of blue, approached him. Each was naked except for a simple smock, carrying his ceremonial robes, battle armor, and the Devastation Hammer. They were siblings, though Grithromax couldn’t be bothered to know that. The one on his left, Tooq, stood behind him and affixed his robes. The other two, Fren and Friblet, busied themselves with pieces of his armor, alternately beseeching him to raise or lower specific limbs as needed.
“Your robes look absolutely splendid this day, Eminence,” said Tooq, attaching the heavy, crimson folds to Grithromax’ shoulders and dusting off any offending dandruff. Grithromax barely nodded. Tooq took great care to spread out each pleat so as to minimize the possibility of subsequent wrinkling. “We had them freshly tanned and pressed just this morning. We’ll just get these on, fasten your battle armor, then call for the fanfare trumpets.”
Fren stepped up with the Devastation Hammer, placed it at his king’s feet, and nodding in agreement with Tooq, added: “We’ve even got three Flatussian marblehawks we’re going to let loose right as you stride out on the balcony. It will look magnificent. Just don’t let the hawks near your robes, if you catch my meaning, sire. These robes are particularly challenging to maintain given their age and given that, well, they’re made from the hides of your defeated enemies. No doubt they had it coming—”
Grithromax side-eyed them both, and they promptly stopped talking.
One of the attendants from out on the balcony poked her head — bright teal and festooned with dangly, connected piercings — back into the Hall of Victory. She looked impatiently at Tooq, waiting for the signal to start the ceremony. Tooq rolled his eyes and nodded. The attendant nodded back and gestured to someone out of sight. Everyone snapped to attention on the balcony. Fanfare trumpets blared, filling the air with a rich, noble sense of purpose for the upcoming invasion.
Fren and Friblet got to work on the armor, placing his helmet by the hammer then busily fastening clasps and adjusting buckles. They motioned for him to stand, which he reluctantly did. When they got to the breastplate and backplate, they paused, surveying their king’s physique like they were interior decorators. They adjusted more straps then tried connecting the two pieces of armor, Fren pushing the backplate from behind while Friblet struggled with the breastplate. No luck.
Grithromax eyed them suspiciously. Grunting, Friblet motioned for his sibling to brace himself then charged at the breastplate as if he were knocking down a door. He bounced off the mighty midsection of his king and landed on the floor.
“Um...” he said, looking up at Tooq.
Fren interrupted. “My liege, perhaps if you... inhaled? Just for a bit? While we attach this?” Tooq stood in front of his king, smiling reassuringly, miming what they needed him to do. Grithromax paused, confused by the indignity of such a request, but complied. Fren, Friblet, and now Tooq all put their backs into it, trying and failing by way of increasingly complicated hand maneuvers to get some leverage. All three then linked arms around their king’s waist and attempted to squeeze the two pieces together. Still no luck.
“Ah, Majesty?” said Tooq, scratching his head. “We appear to be having some... difficulty, with your armor.”
“Difficulty?” growled Grithromax. “What kind of difficulty?”
“Well, sire, it, ah... doesn’t seem to quite fit, really. Heh-heh.” The three paused and looked at their king.
“It must’ve shrunk. Or something.”
“Um... shrunk?”
“Yes. In the wash.”
“Yes, sire.” said Tooq, staring at his king’s midsection as if it were a puzzle.
“What?”
“Nothing, sire.”
“What?!” snarled Grithromax, while taking huge gulps from a nearby flagon.
“Sire,” said Tooq, apologetically, “your armor is high-tensile, triple-shielded Impactonium, forged in the fires of Mount Damagoria by Lord Rupert, Grand Imperial Armorer.”
“And..?”
“I don’t know if it really shrinks, per se.”
“Well, clearly this has! Rupert must’ve made me defective armor.”
“Yes... I suppose that is possible, sire.”
Fren strode forth in front of Tooq, interrupting. “Sire, perhaps if we first remove your commemorative battle-axe nipple piercings from the Fennick annihilation, your breastplate might fit... somewhat better?”
Grithromax glared at him, then at Tooq, who quickly nodded in agreement. Three sycophants-in-waiting feebly mimed concern but were quickly upstaged by more experienced ones. The other attendants and servants nearby busily went to and fro, lighting ceremonial torches and carrying signet banners to the balcony. From outside, the fanfare paused, the royal musicians having already gone through their entire processional.
“Fine,” muttered Grithromax.
“Start the trumpets again!” Tooq shouted to the attendant out on the balcony. “Ready the marblehawks!” he ordered to someone else. “Let’s get this party started.” he mumbled, turning back to his king.
Fren nodded at Tooq then turned his attention to the piercings. The absolute last thing he — or anyone — wanted to go anywhere near those sweaty, turquoise nipples. Yet, this exact scenario had been covered in their royal attendant training, many cycles ago. He averted his eyes as best as possible, then efficiently plucked out the miniature battle axes while simultaneously stifling his instinct to retch. He then deposited them on a nearby tray held out by Friblet, who was also trying not to retch. One tiny stream of vomit, one sour burp — heck, one nose crinkle — would have been grounds for immediate execution.
Fren watched as Friblet took the tray, then he and Tooq got back to the armor. The two brothers swirled around their lord, trying in vain to secure the breastplate and backplate, the pauldrons, the faulds, and other pieces. When they managed to secure two or three pieces together on one side, Grithromax’s considerable girth caused the parts on the other side to pop off. They had some luck with the foot armor, but they could see him wince as they buckled them.
Finally, they had had enough. Tooq wiped his brow and stood up. “My liege, please don’t take this the wrong way, but when was the last time you wore your battle armor?” Fren and Friblet stood at his side, heads bowed, each holding various pieces.
“What? Well, recently, I suppose.” Grithromax said, somewhat defensively. “I wore it during the Hobnobulious-3 campaign when we destroyed the grain stores on their moon, and again at the gala where we forced them naked off the Cliffs of Trepidation.”
“Majesty, that was nearly five cycles ago.”
“What?! No it wasn’t. Was it?”
“Maybe it’s time you had your battle armor, you know, adjusted a bit? So it’s more... comfortable?” Fren, Friblet, and two nearby concubines-in-waiting all nodded sympathetically. Outside, the fanfare paused again.
“Adjusted?!” Grithromax bellowed, clutching the armrest of \his throne. “There is nothing that needs ‘adjusting’ here. Clearly, Rupert made defective armor — or perhaps even did this on purpose!”
“On purpose, sire?”
“On purpose! He’s been out to humiliate me ever since I had my father killed and took the Throne of the Seventeen Realms. Have him flayed!”
“Flayed, sire?” said Tooq, as two of the marblehawks flew off their perch and out past the balcony.
“Yes, flayed. Have him flayed, his family flayed, his neighbors flayed, and his neighbors’ families flayed — at once!”
“Um, yes, of course, my liege. It’s just that—”
“What?!” bellowed Grithromax. The third marblehawk, either frightened by the shouting or perhaps just plain bored, also flew off.
“Well, is that really a thing anymore, sire? I mean, when was the last cycle you ordered a flaying? Lord Rupert has served your family for three generations now.”
Grithromax leaned in toward Tooq, his sharpened teeth dripping with spittle. “Would you care to join him?” Tooq froze. “No? I thought not. Now, have him flayed.”
“Ah, yes. As you wish, my liege.” Standing behind Grithromax, Tooq snapped his fingers and motioned for someone. A pale, blue attendant came, cowering, clad only in an ornate loincloth and an uncomfortable-looking septum ring far too large for his face. Tooq looked sternly at the attendant then proclaimed: “Have Grand Imperial Armorer Rupert Flayed, his family flayed, his neighbors flayed, and his neighbors’ families flayed!”
The attendant looked at him, his eyes pleading. Tooq almost imperceptibly shook his head. The attendant paused, looked around the room then back at him again, relaxing somewhat. He smiled, then immediately grew conscious that he smiled and retracted it. He nodded vigorously and left.
“Now then,” said Grithromax, pleased, leaning back into his throne, “have Rupert make me a new set of armor — one that does not shrink!”
Fren and Friblet looked at Tooq, who glanced at them and then back at Grithromax. “I’m sorry, sire?”
“You heard me,” said Grithromax, annoyed at having to repeat himself. “Have Rupert make me a new set of armor. Make it a bit more...” — waving his huge, meaty hand — “ornate this time, and with one of those newer battery packs for the ionic shielding.”
“Of course, sire. However, you did just order him flayed,” said Tooq. The attendant from the balcony slowly peered back into the hall, looking for guidance. Tooq glared at her and she disappeared again.
“What? Flayed?”
“Yes, sire. You ordered him flayed, his family flayed, his neighbors flayed, and their families flayed. Just now.”
“Did I? Well, then, have his son make me a new set of armor.”
Copyright © 2024 by Paul Cesarini
