1742 c/o Fantini Blake

Him & Her

Beady and glass-like eyes perused the hirsute corpse in front of them. They observed their self wince at the sight, a terse ripple along the spin. He was ugly all right. So languid and pale. Straggly chest hairs congressed and indicated a trail of female displeasure down to his member. He observed his buttocks a while: firm and pink with stray hairs, coarse and blonde - all the signs and ornaments of a pregnant sow, he fancied.

He turned to gaze at his crown, unceremoniously sat on his father’s old chair behind him, and wondered if the Klout pay-off on live-blogging his coronation would be enough compensation for the tackiness and innovation of it all. Hm.

He shuffled over and stooped down over his laptop, exposing himself to the NSA. He scrolled as he hunched and decided against posting “I’m sad and my life is empty” for fear of unsettling or disturbing acquaintances who actually don’t give a tiny rat’s bollocks. 1742 and people still didn’t seem to comprehend the notion of exaggeration for effect. Asshats, gormless idiots, shardborn ninnyhammers the whole lot of them.

A continent away she stood in front of her mirror. No, wait, let’s say she’s sitting on her bed instead. Looking at herself in the mirror. Naked, or partially dressed...sort of draped, Grecian goddess style. Pale skin and cracked lips - thin, wispy hair - dark hairs and darker soul. Faint armpit odor and general mustiness thicken the air a tad. She musters every molecule, every ounce, every shred of fortitude within and removes her headphones. What is it with this, this sickening obsession with listening to sad music that only made her sadder?

She peered at the screen a second and, squinting, took four tries to get her password right. The past week had been difficult - she now understood why there was such a coolness pay-off in being absent from social media. It was hard. It was hard when Nicki Minaj dropped her “Boss Ass Bitch” remix, harder still when Vin Diesel became a dance vlogger. She had lucid dreams of a gun-wielding Onika as her cover pic: fiery discussions about whether poor Japanese people were victims of Katy Perry’s rampant racism even though they liked her hybrid Asiatic get-up; perhaps even a comment section spar to the death re: Cleopatra’s ethnicity (News just in: Greek woman conclusively determined to be Greek). But this was bigger than that. This was her, this was him, and this was now.

She looks out the window and bathes herself in the incoming apricity. Deeming it insufficient she beckoned to absent attendants; perceiving her error she called forth one of her rose-cheeked trollops to come open the curtains wider. The warmth on her skin is matched by warmth in her bosom: the group People Who Cry And Are Also Caesars Sometimes is still there and perfectly salvageable, barring an incriminating post or two. An invitation is sent. She decides against inboxing - the request was more than enough - but the idea allowed her a most enjoyable internal dialogue in which she mimicked Keira Knightley’s off-putting whimsy in “Love Actually” to great effect upon a chance encounter with him in the streets of Moscow. She held firm and did not flinch when the notification arrived: very well, she thought: - oh God, did the notifications never end! - she invited him to the most secret and privileged of secret groups. While they were certain never to meet, she was here to be his rock (and he had better be ready for some late-night phone calls and occasional ranting).

Still uncertain what to do about those pesky Jews, with their excessively wiry hair and erroneous ass ideas, she put her headphones back in and flipped on shuffle. A knock on the door lets us know her alone time is up: emboldened by a surge of inspiration, she turns on the printer. “Natasha, come here!” The little strumpet came in running but, startled, almost crashed to the ground as the sight of her mistress’ nudity hit her full force, sending her swiveling on her heels and with a side dish of complimentary blushing and stuttering. Throwing the iPod at the girl’s feet, she issued her order: “Natasha, transcribe these lyrics, affix my signature and send it out to every city, town and village where there are Hebrews left to deny the glorious munificence of our beloved Orthodox Church...Go, go! Hurry child!

Downstairs he stood, swaddled in ill-fitting Prussian uniform, all eyebrows, flimsy moustache and obnoxiously cumbersome boots. “In the first flower of adolescence” was the preferred deceit proclaimed by optimistic and visually impaired ambassadors at home and abroad. The ungrateful curmudgeon had been unwillingly plucked by his spinster aunt from his recently acquired throne in Finland: he urinated in her vodka when he learnt the cantankerous spinster had quashed his prospects of a far more amenable future as King in Stockholm.

Rearranging his parts (surely life in the cold was supposed to mean less itchiness?), he licks his upper lips and savours the taste of blood. As it continued to pour from his eyes and converge on his bristle like a DalĂ­, he read the paper pinned to the wall by the servants and mouthed the lyrics to iconic crossover hit “Leave (Get Out)”, brutally repurposed now by that tedious eccentric. Turning to face Natasha and the other stunned servants, he sees them all stark naked, sordid blue eyes piercing through all their fine dresses and court attire.