I

Our tale begins and ends in the tiny kingdom of San Côtelette, located on the border between France and Switzerland. Population 84. Elevation 157 meters. Area 7.76 square kilometers. 

It’s a misty, late evening. Omelet, Prince of San Côtelette, is being led by his dog, Major Canis, a Český Fousek, on a business trip through a wooded area behind the royal castle. Hairlike wisps of fog meander among the willows.

The prince spots an old college buddy, Benedict.

“Hey, man, you’re white as my girlfriend’s thigh. What’s up?” Omelet calls out.

“I just stopped in the park to take a leak when in front of me I see his old guy appear. I thought he was some homeless dude, but when I got closer, he gets more familiar-like,” Benedict says breathlessly

“What the hell you talking about? You sloshed?”

“No, man, he like, was made outta smoke.” 

“Now I know you’re blitzed.”

“No, I know’d him, Om. It was your father, King Bazyli.”

“Bro, he died four days ago. You covered a thousand miles to come to his funeral.”

 “And your mother’s wedding.”

“Don’t remind me of that train wreck.”

“Sorry. Yeah, it did come pretty quick afterwards.”

“Guess where the food for the wedding came from.”

 “I swear, bud. I saw him. He was looking real sad but totally pissed about something. Told me to find you.”

“You sure? What was he wearing?”

“A hospital nightie and those bumpy socks they make you wear.”

“That’s what he had on when he died. Where’d you see him?”

“At the south end of the lake, by the tube slide.”

“I better go to him.”

“I wouldn’t, my friend. Never sure what an angry ghost would do.”

“What can he do to me? My life’s not worth shit anyway.” 

Benedict grabs Omelet’s shoulder but the prince breaks away and hurries down to the lake’s edge. The din of a thousand horny toads fills the damp air. As Omelet passes a large thicket of Phragmites australis, a whisp of mist emerges from the reeds, grows until it takes the shape of an old man in a rumpled nightgown. 

“Pop! What are you doing here? We buried you three days ago.” 

“Oh, foul murder!” Bazyli’s form hollers.

 “Somebody kill a chicken?”

“No!  Foul like in rotten.”

“What do you mean, Pop? Who murdered who?”

“No, it’s Who murdered whom?”

“I don’t know. You brought it up.”

“Now listen carefully. I was murdered, son. Me.”

“By who?”

“By wh…never mind. It was your uncle, Suevede, that’s whom…who.” 

“You mean your brother, the dude who married my mother like chop-chop?”

“That’s the one. You must revenge my horrible murder.”

“Wasn’t marrying my mother enough punishment?”

“Got a point there, son. No, revenge must be quid pro quo, understand?”

Omelet shakes his head. “I flunked Latin, Pop, remember?”

“In plain English, Omelet, erase Suevede, got it? Whack him good.”

“Okay,” Omelet says casually. “I’ll put it in my day planner. When do you want this done?”

“Asap, Omelet! Asap!” the ghost barks, clearly impatient. 

“But Pop. You died in your sleep. The doc said natural causes.”

“He was an idiot and probably paid off.  He got everyone to believe that bullshit. I was poisoned, Omelet. Aflatoxin. Suevede put Aspergillus flavis in my persimmon pudding and left it in a warm place.” The apparition snaps off a dry reed of Phragmites and holds it up in Omelet’s face.

“Swear by my sword, Omelet, swear that you will do me this.”

Omelet places his hand on the reed. “I will, Pop, I swear I will avenge your murder by Uncle Suevede.” 

“Super! My brother, that putrid pervert with a silver tongue pops up right after my untimely departure and slick-talked your mother, my lovely Edeltraud, my queen, into his incestuous bed and she bought every venomous word of it. She’s no better than him…he. Damn the both of them. But listen, my son. Do not aim your rath at your mother. She’ll get her just reward at the appropriate time.” 

A rooster calls in the distance.

The ghost looks toward the breaking dawn. “Got to go. Have an appointment down there,” pointing downward with his index finger. “But don’t ask me what it’s like down there. I had to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Besides, you don’t wanna know. Anyway, unfortunately, when the poison so quickly and painfully slammed my body, Deacon Nuschhappen didn’t get to the hospital in time to give me last rites, so no ticket to heaven for me.”

 On that, as Omelet watches awestricken, the image of the king dissolves into the mist as quickly as it appeared while calling out over his shoulder, “Don’t forget!” 

Omelet stands motionless, staring at the spot in the reeds where the image of his father faded away. He reaches into a pocket and removes his smart phone. “I gotta delete everything from my calendar and out of my mind except what I swore I’d do for my father: liquidate Suevede but be nice to my mother. Oh God, I miss him so.”

Another close buddy, Roquefort, comes up behind the prince.  Benedict follows. 

“You okay, Omelet? We were freaked out about your father bit.”  Roquefort says. 

“All I can tell you, it was awesome,” Omelet cries out.

“What was? Who was you talking to, bro?” Roquefort asks.

“My father.”

“Hey, you gone crayolo, man.” Roquefort says. “He dead.”

““Can you keep a secret?” Omelet whispers. “Absolutely, positively you won’t say anything?” 

Benedict and Roquefort glance at each other.

Roquefort hesitates, nods. “Yeah, sure.”

Omelet grasps Roquefort’s shoulders, “You are true blue.”

Benedict stands silently, not sure what to say. The prince eggs him on and he eventually agrees.

“Yes. I swear, Omelet, your secret is safe,” Benedict says. “But. uh, what is the secret?” 

“The secret? The secret is what you just witnessed. Go about your affairs as if nothing happened.  Not one syllable to anyone. And if I start acting a bit bizarre, ignore it. Don’t comment about it, not even twitch an eyebrow. You swear?” 

Bazyli’s voice thunders out of the mist, “Swear!”

The two friends, clearly rattled, nod eagerly and bump fists with Omelet. The trio turns and slowly heads back to the castle.

II

Omelet was having breakfast in Herb’s herb garden. Herb is the head gardener of the kingdom; he’s the only gardener in the kingdom. His major claim to fame is the topiary he created out of a Japanese juniper near the entrance to the castle. He insists it is in the form of an elk, which abound in the nearby forest, but the general consensus among the kingdom’s citizenry is that it looks more like a pair of copulating squirrels. 

Benedict approaches the prince. “Hey, bro, a bunch of guys asking for you. They all dressed in tight, white jackets and funny hats, down by Herb’s randy rodents.”

Before he goes to the visitors, Omelet confides in Benedict what he learned from his dead father’s ghost, then jogs down to greet the group. “Who’s in charge here?” he asks.

“That’s me,” responds a tall male with a pale face and a red bandana wrapped around his neck. “Name’s Chef Crapaudine.” He offers his hand, which was covered with flour. The two shake hands and Omelet, now with the white powder on his hand, quickly tastes it with the tip of his tongue, frowns and wipes his hand on his black velvet trousers, leaving a white streak. 

“So, what’s your shtick?” Omelet says.

“We are itinerant chefs. We travel the world giving courses about food, cooking demos, literary sketches and offer a line of fabulous kitchen widgets. Need a garlic press? Melon baller?” 

 “What’s with you guys? Don’t you have regular jobs? Wandering around the countryside pretending to be Jacques Pépin,” Omelet says.

Crapaudine shakes his head. “It’s the damn franchises. Triple bacon cheeseburgers are in, Pâté de Foie Gras is out.”

“Can you give us a sample of your work. Some famous scene, like Rick chewing out Sam for playing that song.”

“Don’t know that one,” Crapaudine says.

 “Never mind. Can you give a program about persimmon pudding? But with some extra business and a few added lines?” Omelet asks.

“Yes, of course,” Crapaudine says.  Our fee is one thousand Euros. We are a certified, non-profit charity, meaning the cost may be deductible on your taxes.”

Omelet frowns, “What is taxes?” Not hearing an answer, he shrugs, reaches into his pocket and pulls out two Monte Carlo poker chips. “You take plastic?”

The chef looks at the purple discs and smiles. “Certainement.”

“Then make yourselves at home,” Omelet calls out. “The place is yours. There’s a pool out back and the buffet is open 24/7. Benedict, show them to the B&B and tell the deskman to comp them.”

As the actors file into the castle, Omelet drops onto a stone bench, rests his head in his hands and sighs. “Man, what a pussy am I. Here I am with a solemn pledge in my day planner and all I do is trudge about, struggling with the death of my father and doing squat. If only I had the passion of those actors, I’d have dispatched that depraved uncle long ago.” 

Omelet sighs and shifts a pile of dirt with his brogans.  

 “I once read that a murderer was watching a movie on the cable that showed a killing that was so close to his own crime that he ran to an open window and cried out his guilt right then and there. By God, I’ll give the players something that should jolt the king out of his socks and prove that what the ghost of my father told me was the freakin’ truth.

A wide grin spread across Omelet’s face as he stood and strode to the castle.

III

The following morning, Omelet, in Goth attire, is standing in the castle library, murmuring to himself. 

 “Oh, man, what am I gonna do? Is it cool to put up with all the crap that life throws at you these days, or is it better to just end it all with one pop from my Glock 19? Dying is easy, it’s like sleeping, ‘cept you never wake up. I wonder, do you dream when you’re dead? Are the dreams good or bad? I’d be afraid they’d all be bad. Maybe that’s why most people out of cowardness fear death, but it certainly is the best antidote for all of life’s indignities. Take San Côtelette. You’d think for a country as small as we are, we would have avoided all the disgusting stuff that plagues places like Paris or Rome: traffic, filthy air, insolent shopkeepers, a crooked legal system, predatory women, and on and on. We got ‘em all.  Oh, speaking of women, I think I hear my girlfriend Croisantina coming. She is so sexy, even if she is a little flaky.”

“How are you, Omelet?” the young woman asks. 

Omelet nods, “Okay.”

“I have some things here that you have given me. I’d like to give them back to you, the handcuffs, the…”

“Me? I’ve never given you anything.”

“How rude to say that, Omelet. What about the sweet letters that you sent with them? You can have those back, too.”

Omelet shrugs, shakes his finger at Croisantina, “I think I’ve got you figured out. You are both good and beautiful. Normally there’s little connection between the two, but I’ll bet your beauty will eventually overcome your goodness and you’d probably end up a whore. You know, you should really join a convent and avoid the chance of giving birth to a jerk like me. In fact, if I had my druthers, I’d do away with marriage altogether. But if you do marry, marry a dope.  He’d be easier to fool when you cheat on him. And by the way, all these years we’ve been close, I’ve never loved you.”

The young woman is stunned, “Omelet, how could you?” But before she can complete her response, Omelet quickly slips out of the room, shouting over his shoulder, “Get to that convent!”

“My heart is shattered,” Croisantina cries out. “That man, San Côtelette’s most loved and admired person, a prince in every sense, a future occupant of the throne I fear is becoming a future occupant of a padded cell. His sweet voice has become billy goat’s fart, his mind, a box of toads. And I have the honor of witnessing that tragedy before my tear-filled eyes.” 

IV

Omelet spends that evening with the company of culinary thespians, going over the added dialog and action he had prepared for their play to be presented on the following day. 

“This is what you say,” Omelet directs the chef/actor. “Here’s a special pot of persimmon pudding for the king. You then sprinkle this black powder on the pudding and order it stored in the sunroom.”

“What’s this powder?” the chef says, pointing to a small vial in Omelet’s left hand. 

“Just something harmlessly potent I swept off my fireplace hearth.”

“You talk in contradictions, but we’ll play along.”

“Then you,” Omelet pointing to the chef who is to play the part of Omelet’s father, Bazyli. “After consuming the pudding, you are to die a painful death. But don’t overdo it. We don’t want the audience, one in particular, to be distracted by your histrionics, as brilliant as I’m sure they are.” 

V

Omelet catches Benedict’s arm as he is about to enter the castle theater for the chefs’ performance.

“Bro, a minute,” Omelet says, leading his friend to a dark corner. “I need your help tonight. Pay special attention to Suevede’s manner as he watches the play. If he has one atom of conscience in that lardaceous body of his, and if my father’s ghost was real and telling the truth, Suevede’s guilt should reveal itself.”

“I’ll watch him like a rabbit watches a hawk.”  

King Suevede and Queen Edeltraud and their aides had gathered in the castle theater for the presentation of the itinerant chefs. Omelet seats himself on the far side of the audience in order to get a clear view of the king. The lights are dimmed and the program begins with Chef Crapaudine giving a botanical explanation of persimmons, the different varieties and their distribution around the world. 

A second chef, dressed like Suevede as a commoner, comes on stage. “I will prepare persimmon pudding, a special favorite of my dear brother, King Bazyli,” he says. He begins to slice up a heap of ripe persimmons and as he adds ingredients and stirs up a bowl of the thick mixture, he explains to the audience that normally the concoction is steamed for several hours, but in the interest of time, he’ll pretend it’s done. He then takes out the vial of the black powder Omelet had given him, waving it in the air to make sure the audience notices it, and dusts the pudding with its contents. “Oscar,” he calls out. “Put this pudding in the castle solarium, and make sure it’s in a sunny spot.”

The first thing Omelet notices is the change of color of the king’s face, from light skin pink to cherry red, but the king remains silent.

Act two is introduced. A chef in drag appears as the queen. She is greeted by an actor dressed as King Bazyli. “My love, time is passing so quickly,” he says quietly. “I fear our thirty years of marriage may not continue. Would you remarry if I died soon?”

“You know what they say, ‘A woman who remarries had probably killed her first husband,’” the queen remarks.

Suevede’s chair squeaks nervously.

“You’ll change,” the pretend king says.

“No, my lord. I would suffer the pains of hell if I remarried.”

“Well, I am famished and in need of an afternoon snack.” Bazyli orders a servant to bring a bowl of persimmon pudding. A bowl is placed before the king. The king rubs his hands and dives into the bowl with a huge spoon, showing great gusto. He sits back, pats his obviously prosthetic paunch and emits a thunderous belch. Omelet grins broadly and whispers, “Bravo.” 

The actor/king grabs his throat, then his stomach and moans loudly. “Oh, I’m poisoned.” He slumps out of his chair and rolls onto the floor. His legs twitch wildly, then cease.

Suevede rises from his chair, shouting, “Turn on the lights! Stop this nonsense.” His face is no longer red, but ashen and rumpled like a Sunday-morning bed. 

Omelet is overjoyed. “Benedict,” he calls out. “Did you see that? The ploy worked better than I ever hoped it would. That proves my father’s ghost was real and everything he said about my uncle is true.” 

The king, still ranting, is led from the room by Queen Edeltraud. 

Within minutes, Omelet receives a note from the queen to see her immediately. 

“Here’s my chance to flog her with the facts, but with restraint, as my father entreated me,” Omelet murmurs. 

VI

Flushed with the success of the play, Omelet decides to make a stop at his apartment for a cold beer before visiting his mother. On his way, he passes the chapel and stops abruptly. He hears a voice coming from inside the alcove. Omelet spies a figure kneeling before a television screen. It’s King Suevede. He’s watching a televangelist and praying out loud. 

“Oh, man. Here’s my chance,” Omelet murmurs excitedly. He reaches for his pistol and aims at the back of the king’s head. His finger caresses the trigger. Fragments of the King’s plea drift out through the open chapel door, which Omelet is able to overhear. Omelet is dumbstruck. Suevede is asking forgiveness for murdering his brother. 

“Crap!” Omelet mutters. “I can’t whack him now while he’s confessing to killing my father. He’ll surely go to heaven while my father, denied the prize, will really be pissed.”  Omelet slips the pistol back into his belt, snorts out loud in disappointment and continues to his apartment.

VII

Aloysius Achelous Acrimonious is San Côtelette’s prime minister as well as the kingdom’s only judge/prosecutor and father of Croisantina and son Chevrier. Acrimonious migrated from Greece decades ago and bribed his way up the hierarchy until he became the kingdom’s most influential figure after the royal couple. He made his wealth selling olive oil to American Mafia dons. He is a small man with an ill-kempt shock of white hair and matching beard. He’s a babbling brook, tending to deliver long speeches when one word would have sufficed. Like a diesel engine, he continues running even after a conversation has ceased. He had been following the recent upheaval in the relationship between Omelet and his daughter, watching their interactions and eavesdropping on their conversations. He finally decides it’s time to alert the queen as to her son’s bizarre behavior.  He finds Queen Edeltraud in her chamber.

“Your highness, I must relay to you the most critical information. I must tell you about it immediately. It is very critical, the information, I have to tell you immed…” 

All right, Acrimonious, get to the point,” the queen says sharply.

“Were you aware, your highness, that your son, Omelet, has become flat out cracked?  I have been watching him for several days. First of all, he has been going on WeKvetch dissing the king. Yesterday he didn’t recognize me. Confused me with one of the scullery maids. I wouldn’t mind particularly except she’s the ugliest one of the bunch. He wanders the castle, babbling nonsense. This morning I was standing just outside the library when he was mouthing his usual prattle, and I thought he said something about shooting himself.”

“Oh, my god,” the queen gasped.   

 “One minute he’s writing love letters, talking dirty and making all kinds of kinky propositions to Croisantina, and just this morning he’s telling her he never loved her, that she looks like a hooker and that she should join a convent. For her safety I had ordered her give back his love letters, which she has obeyed to the letter, and to avoid any contact with him. That, I believe, has only made him crazier. He has totally gone off his rails. For his own good, your highness, we must send Omelet away for treatment. I know an excellent shrink on the island of Zakynthos.”

Omelet’s voice is heard as he approaches the door to the queen’s chamber. “Are you in there, my lovely mother?”

“Quick, hide in the dressing room,” Queen whispers. Acrimonious slips behind a curtain that separates the dressing room from the queen’s chambers.

Omelet enters. “Mommy, you have really pissed me off the way you have treated Pop.”

“Omelet, dear, such language to speak to your mother that way. Your father is dead.”

“Exactly. And how long have you mourned King Basyli? Weeds have not yet sprouted on his grave and you give yourself over to another man, and I use the term loosely, in fact the whole situation is loosely,” the young man says, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Omelet, you have offended the name of your father.”

Raising his voice threateningly, Omelet continues, “No, mommy. You are the offender.”

“Omelet’s rising rant rattles the queen. “Please don’t kill me!” she shouts. “You forget I am your mother.”

“Yes, I do wish to forget it.” Brutally shoving his mother into a chair, Omelet demands, “Now sit quietly while I…” Movement behind a nearby curtain distracts him. “Mother, your rooms are infested with vermin,” he shouts while reaching into his belt.

The queen screams, “Omelet!” Her cry is punctuated by the sound of three gunshots in rapid succession that reverberate throughout the cavernous room. 

 Omelet steps back as the curtain and Acrimonious’ body fall to the floor at Omelet’s feet, blood rapidly seeping into the curtain under the unmoving form. 

“Oh, shit. I smoked the wrong dude,” the prince murmurs. “You sack of grease, you bungling buttinski. You got what you deserved,” he bellows.

“Omelet, you have done a terrible thing,” Edeltraud cries out.

“Not any worse than killing your husband and marrying his killer.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” 

“Think about it,” Omelet says, pointing to two photos on a nearby table. “Here are two guys, one honorable, handsome, the other, famished vultures would pass on his carcass. And what do you do? Gleefully trade the former for the latter. A lunatic would not do such a thing.”

At that moment a vaporous form appears. Omelet turns to face the apparition. 

“Just dropped in to check on you. You didn’t forget your pledge, did you, son?” 

Omelet shakes his head vigorously. Gesturing toward Acrimonious’ body, “This was just a fortunate accident, Pop. I’m on it, honest.”

Queen Edeltraud gasps, looking into the direction her son is gazing. “Who are you talking to?”

Omelet shrugs his shoulders. “Don’t you see him? Hear him?”

“Omelet, dear, your mind is disintegrating,” the queen says, her voice strained, trembling. 

 “Oh, look. Your mother is wigging out,” King Bazyli says. “Talk to her.”

“Hey, mom, how goes it?”

“Omelet. You are very ill.” 

“No more ill than you, mommy. Admit it, don’t you have the slightest bit of guilt in your heart? Begin your repentance by avoiding the king tonight and henceforth.”

“Good going,” the ghost says and its image disperses. 

“Since the cleaning lady doesn’t come until Tuesday, guess I’ll tidy up.” Omelet drags Acrimonious’ body out of the room by the blood-soaked curtain, leaving a scarlet smear across the white marble floor.  

The captain of the guard finds Omelet and escorts him to the king.  

“Where is Acrimonious ?” Suevede demands.

“He sleeps with the worms”.

“It’s, he sleeps with the fishes,” the captain of the guard whispers in Omelet’s ear.

“Oh, sorry. Anyway, he resides in the library, in the non-fiction section, but take your time. He won’t budge, but don’t dilly-dally too long either or his state will eventually announce itself throughout the castle.” 

VIII

Omelet’s killing of Acrimonious is the last straw. He is banished to the island of Zakynthos for psychiatric treatment, but he bribes the boat captain and instead he is taken to Monaco. There, he spends the next two weeks in the Monte Carlo Casino, but it soon becomes apparent that the Prince of San Côtelette has nearly broken the bank. That qualifies him for a free ticket for the next train out of town. Omelet is perp-walked to the train station, but he takes it in stride and heads for home. 

IX

Acrimonious’ daughter Croissantina enters the throne room where the king and queen are to receive visitors. Her brother Chevrier is also present. She is clearly agitated over the death of her father and Omelet’s treatment of her. A distant look is in her eyes. She is carrying a tray of cheeses, almonds and some crackers.

Suevede shouts, “Cheeses! Christ, she’s gone nuts, too. 

Croissantina approaches Chevrier and offers him a wedge of cheese.

“This is Galotiri for remembrance. Remember me, my love.” 

She turns to Suevede, “This is Anthotyros for your forgetfulness, for forgetting to protect my father from that homicidal maniac. And Kopanisti for your insensitivity.” 

“And to you, your highness, the queen, Metsovone for the happy love you have deprived Omelet and which drove him to his madness. And here is Mizithra for your unfaithfulness.” 

 “And some Kefalotyri for me. Crackers anyone? Nuts?”

Speechless, the king, queen and Chevrier stare at Croissantina, mouths agape, half chewed cheese and crackers fall from their tongues. 

Croissantina smiles and quietly slips out of the room.

Chevrier breaks the silence, his voice echoing off the marble walls. “See what that crackpot has done to that once beautiful young woman?” he shouts. “She has become as loony as him.”

Croissantina finds her way to the kitchen. She is alone. A few minutes later a sou chef discovers her, her head is submerged in a kettle of marinara sauce. She has drowned. 

The castle is instantly abuzz with speculations over Croissantina’s death. Theories abound. She did it out of embarrassment to hide her pregnancy. Standing on a stool, she lost her balance while tasting the sauce. She was about to leak to the media a plot to overthrow the monarchy and was killed by a hired assassin, and on and on. 

X

Benedict meets Omelet at the train station when he returns from Monaco. On their walk to the castle, Omelet informs his friend what the ship’s captain told him.

“The king gave the captain a confidential letter that was to be given to the doctor who I was supposed to see on Zakynthos. Since we didn’t go to Zakynthos, he was about to burn it, but out of curiosity, he unsealed it and read it. It was, as he said, the most awful shock of his life.”

“What in blazes did it say?” Benedict asks.

“It ordered the doctor to forgo any treatment for me, or even food or water, but to lock me up in a cell and destroy the key.”

Benedict’s knees buckle. “Oh, my god. It ain’t healthy for you here. I know a guy. He can get you into the states.”

“I have a pledge to fulfill.” Omelet whispers. “After that, who knows?”

The two men continue walking in silence. 

“You missed Acrimonious’ funeral.” Benedict says. 

“How was it?”

“Nothing special. A few mourners.”

“Glad I wasn’t there. It would have been awkward.”

Omelet and Benedict take a shortcut to the castle through the royal graveyard. A gravedigger is hard at work. Omelet approaches him.

“Whose grave is this?”  the prince asks.

“Obviously not yours”

“Don’t be a smartass. For who…whom is it for?”

“Not a clue, I just dig ‘em”

“I don’t dig you. You dig a grave without knowing who the future occupant is?”

“All I’ve heard is that it’s a young female and she’s been denied full rites ‘cause of her creepy expiry.” 

“Who could that be?” Omelet whispers to Benedict. Benedict remains silent.

“Well, I can tell you who the previous resident was,” the gravedigger says.  “Here’s his skull. Name was Clapper. That ring a bell?” He tosses the skull to Omelet, who drops it and it shatters into a thousand pieces. Omelet picks up the jawbone and caresses the teeth. 

“Coinneach Clapper, my buddy! I knew him, Benny. These teeth lit up a room when he smiled. He was my bagpipe teacher. I would sit on his knee and he would let me squeeze his bag.” 

 A funeral procession approaches. Omelet and Benedict hide behind a large tombstone. The King, Queen, Chevrier, Deacon Nuschhappen, four pallbearers and a clutch of mourners pass.  The ceremony begins and the deceased is lowered into the grave. Omelet strains to see the body but the gathering of mourners blocks his view. In his eulogy, the deacon calls out Croissantina’s name.

“No!” Omelet cries out. He lunges through the throng and toward the open grave but is body blocked by Chevrier. Chevrier leaps into the grave and takes Croissantina’s body in his arms. Omelet follows him and pulls at Chevrier‘s neck. “Outta the way, you stronzo. That’s my girlfriend,” Omelet cries out.

“She’s my sister!” Chevrier shouts back.

“She’s my lover.”

“She’s my sister and my lover.” 

The sound of gasps from the assembled mourners cuts through the forest silence.

Omelet steps back. “Hey, hold it.” he shouts, “Who is this chick? This is not my Croissantina. She was blond.”

“We couldn’t get all the marinara sauce out of her hair,” one of the pall bearers calls out.

On that cue, Chevrier swings a fist at Omelet, who parries and the two exchange blows until the four pall bearers manage to separate them. 

Benedict helps Omelet out of the grave and leads him toward the castle, but not before the prince turns and shouts, “I did love her!” 

XI

King Suevede and Chevrier are huddled in the castle chapel. 

“I tell ya, Suevede, Omelet, that kid of yours really pisses me off.  All that play acting about going nuts and all.” 

“He’s not my kid, Chevrier. He’s Edeltraud’s. Don’t you forget that.” 

“I’d like to forget him permanently. Isn’t there something we can do to make him, like, disappear? He should pay for the murder of my father.”

The king shakes his head. “It’s called sovereign immunity. But funny you should ask. I have been giving that very matter some thought. I had plans for him when he was supposed to go to that Greek island I can’t pronounce, but he double-crossed me. You know, fatal accidents happen all the time, even in San Côtelette.”

Chevrier’s mouth gradually forms a wide grin. “You SOB.  What the hell did you have in mind?”

“One of Omelet’s passions is skateboarding, right? And I hear you’re pretty good at it, too. Suppose you challenge him to a duel and…”

Chevrier shakes his head. “Skateboarding is near the bottom of the list for sports fatalities.”

“Ah, but we simply see to it that it moves to the top of the list.”

Chevrier’s face wrinkles into a big question mark.

The king’s eyes narrow. “You know Bogumierz, the blacksmith and computer repairman? He owes me a favor. His daughter wanted to get into the University of Lower Liechtenstein but had shitty grades. The admissions officer there happened to need cash for a nose job. Anyway, the daughter was accepted on a volleyball scholarship. She didn’t know a volleyball from a cabbage, but I’m getting off the subject.  Bogumierz says he can doctor the screws that hold the wheels onto a skateboard so they will fail when the rider puts lateral pressure on the thing, like when trying to make a quick turn or stop.”

“I still don’t get it. Skinned knees aren’t usually fatal.”

“Unless it happens at the top of a…what do you call where you do your thing?”  

“Half-pipe.”

“Yeah, half-pipe. If it happens at the top when you’re skidding to a stop and the platform is narrow and there’s just a low railing on the edge and there’s a five meter drop to a stone walk below.”

Chevrier nods. “Now I get it. Perfect. I’ll challenge him to a dual and loan him the trick board.”

The two men bump fists.

“You sure the screw idea will work?” Chevrier asks.

“Not to worry. I have a backup plan. The weather this weekend is supposed to be hot. I’ll have an iced case of bottled water delivered to the half-pipe. Cassegrade, the pharmacist, has prepared one of the bottles to contain an extract of oleander seeds. That bottle will have a green label. We’ll just make sure Omelet gets that one.”

XII

Omelet and Roquefort are riding their skateboards toward the castle when Omelet hears another skateboard and a familiar voice behind him. 

“Hey, Omelet. Wait up.” the voice says.

Omelet’s blood freezes and the adrenalin begins to pump, for the voice is Chevrier’s. Omelet stops and turns quickly, expecting an attack, but he sees a smiling figure.

“Omelet,” Chevrier says, “Sorry about the thing at my sister’s burial. We were very close, ya know.”

“So we heard,” Omelet says.  

Chevrier looks down at Omelet’s skateboard. “Rad board. Had it long?”

Omelet nods, “Yeah.”

“Haven’t been on mine much. Just had an idea. How about you and me have a little contest at the half-pipe, like we used to?”

Omelet’s core tenses again. Contest sounds menacing, confrontational. “A contest?”

“Yeah, a friendly little…contest.”

Omelet takes a deep breath, thinking back at the king’s plan to have him die in a cell. Could be another plot, but maybe a chance to smoke the rat out of his nest. “Sure,” he says cautiously. “Saturday at two? And invite the king and queen.”

“Good idea. See ya then,” Chevrier says, turns and skates away.

Roquefort looks at Omelet, his eyes narrow. “You can’t be for real, man. He out for your blood.” 

“Yeah, I know. Did you notice an odd odor while Chevrier was talking to us?” Omelet says. 

“You bet. It a common gas emitted by certain people, like politicians and car salesmen. It’s called Duplicygen.”  

XIII

Saturday afternoon. Two overstuffed chairs have been placed on a platform at one end of the halfpipe for the king and queen. A dozen iced bottles of water has been placed on a nearby table.  Several castle denizens are chatting close by. 

Omelet and Benedict are lingering behind the halfpipe. 

“Bro,” Benedict says, “did you hear the king is betting on you to win?”

Omelet shrugged his shoulders. “I have a funny feeling about this deal.”

“There’s still time to back out.”

“No way. Whatever happens, it’s already written. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? A bloody elbow? A broken wrist? I can live with that.”

Benedict signs heavily, says, “You ready?”

“Not quite yet. Got a joint? I need a little more time.”

Benedict shakes his head. “Sorry, man.”

“Let the tournament begin,” Suevede shouts. The four-man royal drum and bugle corps sounds a resplendent flourish. 

Omelet straightens up, takes a deep breath and walks around the massive halfpipe and bows to the king and queen. Benedict follows.

Omelet and Chevrier climb the stairs to the top of the halfpipe. Chevrier is carrying two skateboards, Omelet, one. Suevede flips a coin and Omelet wins the toss. The prince chooses to follow Chevrier.

Omelet catches Chevrier’s arm just as he is about to approach the edge of the nearly vertical halfpipe wall.  Omelet whispers. “I haven’t been myself lately. If I’ve offended you in any way, is was not calculated.”

Chevrier nods, takes a deep breath and lunges down the vertical wall of the halfpipe, pulling off modest attempts at several tricks.  

Omelet follows, performing several spectacular tricks and finishing next to Chevrier.

The judges signal that Omelet has won the first round.

The queen is standing by the water table. The water bottles catch the corner of her eye and without looking she casually grasps a bottle with a green label, unscrews the cap and begins to drink the cold liquid. 

The king rises and shouts to the queen, “Edeltraud! Don’t…don’t drink that!”

The queen turns to Suevede, “Why not? It’s hot as hell down here.”

Chevrier holds up his second skateboard. “Omelet, I just received this incredible board. It maneuvers like a dream. Want to try it?” 

Omelet shakes his head. “No thanks, I’m happy with mine.”

“I’m not suggesting you keep it, man. Just try it out.”

“Okay,” Omelet says indifferently.  He sets Chevrier’s board on the rim and plunges down the vert and rises up the opposite wall. He returns to his starting point, twisting to stop his forward motion. As promised, Bogumierz’s tricked screws perform as designed and both trucks separate from the board. Out of control, Omelet’s eighty-six kilo mass dutifully obeys Newton’s first law of motion and he rockets over the barrier and plunges down to the granite pathway five meters below. 

The queen grabs the edge of the table to gain her balance, then drops to her knees as she disgorges her recent, hearty lunch. She falls on her face, not breathing. The king rushes to her side, helpless.

Chevrier cautiously peers over the edge and looks down at Omelet’s body. A figure comes up behind him. It’s Roquefort. A slight bump and Chevrier loses his balance and ends up just a few feet from where Omelet lies. 

Omelet, blood flowing from his ears and nose, turns his head and faces Chevrier. “Welcome to Earth,” he says quietly.

Chevrier struggles to speak. “Omelet, all is forgiven. None of this was my idea. The king, Omelet, the king.” His head drops.

Omelet is on his back and struggling to remove an object from his trouser pocket.

Suevede makes his way through the crowd that has circled around the two gravely injured men. He leans over Omelet, suppressing a smile and hardly hiding his sarcasm, “You okay, son?”

The sound of a gunshot echoes throughout the valley. The king staggers backwards. Another gunshot. Suevede falls forward, first on his knees, then face down onto the granite blocks.

Omelet’s pistol drops from his upraised hand and clatters onto the hard pathway. He slowly lowers has arm as Benedict kneels next to him, his face glistening with tears. Behind him stands a stone-faced Roquefort. 

“My good friend,” Omelet gurgles, choking on blood, “You got stuff for a great book. Do it.” 

“Sleep my prince. Dream of fields of white poppies, meadowsweet and…”

Omelet, Prince of San Côtelette, exhales his last breath. 

Despite a faint breeze, a patch of mist momentarily lingers over the two bodies, then dissipates. 

By now two ambulances from a nearby Swiss town have pulled up to the site. Chief attendant Möller Spargel slips out of his cab, eyes wide, mouth agape as he absorbs the incredible scene. “Was zum Teufel ist hier passiert? he asks. 

“Familienfehde,” an elderly bystander murmurs.   

Accompanied by the royal drum and bugle corps striking a solemn cadence, four EMTs raise Omelet’s body to their shoulders and carry it back to the castle. 

THE END

EPILOGUE

With the entire royal family of San Côtelette obliterated, the citizens hold an election to determine the country’s future. Seventy seven percent voted to apply for annexation to Switzerland. The minority objected, claiming the election was rigged and refused to allow the petition to be sent to their neighboring country. The matter could not be adjudicated since Prime Minister Acrimonious was San Côtelette’s only judge. San Côtelette remains to this day, a nearly abandoned, leaderless seven and a half square kilometers of lush valleys and soaring mountains. 

---