Portrait of King Willem-Alexander delivering his “monarch’s annual address” on the day the government presents its Budget. September of the year 2013.

Short Open Story Letter

to

King Willem-Alexander-Fart-Nugget-Shit-Stain of The Really Really Low Countries.

By

A.N. Houx

Who the fuck is this motherfucking bitch-fucking fuck-twit? Said a man. The French, they knew. Just like a loaf of bread. Chopchopchopchop!!

And King Willem-Alexander-Fart-Nugget-Shit-Stain of The Really Really Low Countries with his portly wife Queen Maxima Cunt-Face-Arse, walked the grounds of their many castles, farting and laughing, and kicking small children in the head until their brains leaked out of their nostrils, while petting ever-so-cute little kittens (mostly Asheras and Savannahs, but a few Peterbalds, also). Owh, my Deahr Queen, he said (only in his own language, of course. Something like “Oh, mijn lieve koningin”? Maybe?), as the blood was duly licked off of his $9000 loafers. Let uhs celebrhate beyhond what ihs called for, yesh? Old tihmes are back agaihn, you knowhh. Finally we can act the pahrt. He gestured majestically towards everything and everyone, as he felt, finally, that wonderful feeling in his chest of knowing he was better than all the other people and all the other things in the land. Queen Maxima Cunt-Face-Arse made a sharp whistling sound out of her face-hole which caused a flock of doves to die.

The celebration went on for what seemed like forever, until someone, just anyone, got up and said, You know what, you fucking motherfucking child-raping fucking pieces of shit. It’s fucking over. Kings are of the past. And the present should, really out of plain necessity, kill the past.

And everyone said Yes, why are we even listening to these fucking twats anyway? I mean, really, what the fuck is wrong with us, taking a bunch of losers like this seriously?! What the fuck?! And they all went happily to the palace at Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal and dragged the fucking King and his fucking Queen and all their fucking children (they have spawned offspring, I suppose? Right?) and any other fucking member of their fucked up family of fucking moochers, and killed them slowly and methodically. And every year since then children, on that very day, venture to the spot and urinate copiously and happily.

The End. 

From:

“New Windmills” Work in progress 2012-

MS unpublished

To be featured in the upcoming anthology “History Painting Just Now”.

LWBP Press.