Ron Koppelberger
The Kings Doormat
Coexisting with humanity was a chore for Vigil Vigilant. He was a doormat for the crown of reliable sovereignty, a fledgling washbowl for the king of propensity and the garnered pregnant pastures of Gin Common. The concealed perfection of his impending parable, his soliloquy de la Vigil the vanquisher was an unbroken chain of circumstances in the ebony glassed city of curtsey. Vigil sighed and plotted the downfall of the nobles and the king of Gin. His preparation had been tedious and in risqué comment to his green desire. He stood poised behind the king, ready to take his soul, his existence to eternity, when the clarion call came, the brass bell sounded and Vigil cringed as harmonies of magic filled the glass castle of smoke. Angels flittered in alabaster silhouette above the king and the caste of priests, maidens and nobles. Vigil scampered back to his tiny refuge deep within the castle keep, cooing to himself in teary eyed comfort. He’d prove himself, it was his fate and the fate of Gin Common.
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