‘Le Slap Royal’
reading time: two minutes
-unedited-
That day the Trump came about Buckingham Palace and made the Queen turn into a snide little giant who deserved every palm of every hand of that standing ovation…
Right in her face.
Waiting in the checkout line casually glancing at the porn magazines stacked high up and out of reach, I suddenly got a hard elbow in my already sensitive liver. The night before was a night like every other night, I got smashed, hard and fast and totally alone. I had woken up with bloodshot eyes and a whining liver, but didn’t care, until now.
‘Goddammit!’
I shouted. Dragging my eyes off the glossy hypnotizing pages up on the top shelf and dropped them threateningly on the figurine wielding that stumpy fucking elbow.
‘What The Fak!?’
‘Outamaway.’ I heard in a voice that reminded me of that time I unselfishly strangled a beached dolphin to hasten its demise.
‘Outamawhat?’
‘Outamaway! Outamaway!’
I looked down and saw this four foot, gray haired, gown dressed, tiara wearing, old lady making violent efforts trying to pass me towards the way out.
‘Wow wow, wait a minute!’ I exclaimed.
‘Protocol.’ the strange voice added to her already strange vocabulary.
‘Proto fuck you.’ I responded with my latest play on words.
It stunned her for an instant, but she quickly pulled out a five, a tenner, a twenty and a fifty.
‘Sorry, but I can not be bought.’ I lied, just to up my price.
BOOOM!
Dramatically the lightning struck a rummaging old squirrel in the tree just outside of the gas station and a lantern in the street went off and on as to measure the time that passed between us.
Unmoved by my staunch stance on this tense situation, she started to unfold the notes and showed how each and every one of the faces on those notes were eerily similar to the one who was unfolding them.
And then it hit me…
Cigarettes! I must not forget to buy some fucking cigarettes.
‘Protocol.’ she repeated making me drop out of my thoughts back into the line.
‘Proto…’
But wait a minute.
And then it hit me…
It was Queen Elisabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor II, with eleven pieces of Pritt sticks in her child sized shopping kart, who was claiming shotgun in the waiting line. It seemed she eagerly wanted to go home, most likely to try and glue back her broken nation.
‘You… You snidely insulted that orange fella yesterday. Am I right?’
She smirkily smiled in her not so neutral way and it was all I needed.
‘Please…’ I spoke, while I made a bow and moved aside to let Her Majesty pass towards the cash register.
And then.
Then I tripped her. I tripped her so she fell with her face flat on the ground.
‘Do you really think one swallow makes the summer?’
?!
To the back of the line!’ I shouted in her bewildered old mug. ‘You self-entitled globalist little smurf!’
Clap! Clap! Clap!
Some folks on the telly applauded as I grabbed my cigarettes, payed my dues and bowowd out. ?
