He sits on the beach, this lonely king. All puffed up and stuffed with his latest ego dressing.
Surrounded by supplicants he stares at the waves. Staring.
Staring.
These waves will turn, he thinks, sure as any despot has ever been.
Sure as any certainty that has ever whispered his name; exalted, ecstatic… You are the chosen one.
These waves they approach, and supplicants tremble, fearful of the deluge, flood-fractious and angsty.
It’ll be fine, he laughs, it can’t happen here. How dare you question me?
This beach is dry, don’t you see? That sea-water there isn’t making us wet. The whole world could be water, but not here my friends!
I am stemming the tide.
I am beating back moon and waves.
Me.
I am in command. I am the command.
More gold for the throne, he cries, sending supplicants scurrying.
And none of that fake plate stuff, make it solid!
My buttocks deserve no less than solid, beautiful, expensive GOLD. Make me a throne that reflects my magnificence. A throne that all will view with envious gaze. A throne worthy of the one and ONLY king.
See how this ocean trembles to a standstill.
Those waves don’t crest.
That spume sits still and silent.
Even the fish down in the deeps wait for my command. The octopus in his lair dare not extend a single tentacle. The shark fears to bite.
I make it so.
This sea will not rise.
It will not happen here.
Your king commands it so.
It will not happen here.
