“First rule of monarchic hospitality: Always trust the king in his own kingdom. So, tell me, what is the creator of Wee Wendy Waif, Nobody’s Child, doing down in the DeepUnder far away from the Sun of Social Compassion?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m sure it is. Do tell. Long stories are the meat and drink of kings.” He positioned himself beside Courtney Hall on the conversation piece, and the long long story bubbled out of her like an artesian spring brought to the surface by the comfortable pressure of human company. A long and companionable line of sedimenty empty chocolate cups was halfway to the door before the source was all bubbled dry. “So, this is Courtney Hall,” she concluded. “Now, who is the King of Nebraska?” As she had told her long long story, she had not been able to rid herself of a déjà-vuesque sense of having met, seen, known this man somewhere, somewhen, somehow before. The King laughed, a head-tossing, affected, whinnying sound.
“Who am I? I am the King of Nebraska, Absolute and Undisputed Monarch of Victorialand, known to my friends as Dexedrine Johnny the Jitt. You, however, may know me better by my former name and title: Jonathon Ammonier, Elector of Yu.”
“You can’t be.”
“Oh, yes, I can be.”
“You’re not.”
“Of course I’m not. But I was. Are you surprised?”
“I don’t know what to think down here anymore. I might scream, though.”
“Please don’t.”
“You did look very familiar.”
“That’s because I am. But you wanted to know who I am. Well, if I tell you the story of the ex-Elector and the King of Nebraska, maybe you’ll have less difficulty in believing that I is what I am.” The King of Nebraska stood up and took himself on a circuitous lecture walk of his exhibits. “Have you any idea what they do to ex-Electors?” He picked up the death mask and placed it on the gramophone turntable. “In fact, have you any idea just what it takes to be an Elector?” The mask revolved slowly, a kaleidoscope of expressions. “It’s not all riding about blessing shrines and opening arcologies and dedicating resort complexes and exhorting factory workers. As Elector, you are, I was, the point of equilibrium between the collective corporations of the Seven Servants, the Ministry of Pain, and the Polytheon. By the way, do you know what ‘equilibrium’ means? It comes from two old words, ‘equi,’ meaning equal amounts, and ‘librium,’ which is the name of a tranquilizer. So you’ve got some idea of what it’s like to be the Elector. God, State, Industry. That’s a lot for a zook from Ton SurTon who is dancing his buns off in the Purple Beret one night and the next resting those same exquisite chunks of his anatomy on the Salamander Throne receiving the lauds of city, corporation, and computer.” He slipped a marq into the laughing sailor. The glass case shuddered and the malevolent matelot clashed wooden teeth and rolled about, cramped with mechanical guffaws. “Experience. That’s the key. Responsibility without experience is as much fun as a chocolate bedpan. Each Elector leaves behind him the memories of his term of office recorded on a biochip.” He removed the hair from behind his left ear and tapped with a fingernail. There was a clink. “I got one, too. In goes the biochip and voilà! You’re forty-three ex-Electors. Quite a party to be throwing inside your own head. And useful, too. I’ve had a great time with these folks. But what they don’t tell you, and what none of your predecessors knows”—he slapped the roaring automaton and it fell silent, mouth open—“is that in order to get you as Visible Symbol of the Compassionate Society onto one admittedly minute biochip, they have to wipe you clean as a toilet bowl, sister, sans memories, sans consciousness, sans self, sans everything.” He slipped a hand up the ballroom dancer’s skirt, ran his fingers over her plastic backside. “Wiped clean and born again, a
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m sure it is. Do tell. Long stories are the meat and drink of kings.” He positioned himself beside Courtney Hall on the conversation piece, and the long long story bubbled out of her like an artesian spring brought to the surface by the comfortable pressure of human company. A long and companionable line of sedimenty empty chocolate cups was halfway to the door before the source was all bubbled dry. “So, this is Courtney Hall,” she concluded. “Now, who is the King of Nebraska?” As she had told her long long story, she had not been able to rid herself of a déjà-vuesque sense of having met, seen, known this man somewhere, somewhen, somehow before. The King laughed, a head-tossing, affected, whinnying sound.
“Who am I? I am the King of Nebraska, Absolute and Undisputed Monarch of Victorialand, known to my friends as Dexedrine Johnny the Jitt. You, however, may know me better by my former name and title: Jonathon Ammonier, Elector of Yu.”
“You can’t be.”
“Oh, yes, I can be.”
“You’re not.”
“Of course I’m not. But I was. Are you surprised?”
“I don’t know what to think down here anymore. I might scream, though.”
“Please don’t.”
“You did look very familiar.”
“That’s because I am. But you wanted to know who I am. Well, if I tell you the story of the ex-Elector and the King of Nebraska, maybe you’ll have less difficulty in believing that I is what I am.” The King of Nebraska stood up and took himself on a circuitous lecture walk of his exhibits. “Have you any idea what they do to ex-Electors?” He picked up the death mask and placed it on the gramophone turntable. “In fact, have you any idea just what it takes to be an Elector?” The mask revolved slowly, a kaleidoscope of expressions. “It’s not all riding about blessing shrines and opening arcologies and dedicating resort complexes and exhorting factory workers. As Elector, you are, I was, the point of equilibrium between the collective corporations of the Seven Servants, the Ministry of Pain, and the Polytheon. By the way, do you know what ‘equilibrium’ means? It comes from two old words, ‘equi,’ meaning equal amounts, and ‘librium,’ which is the name of a tranquilizer. So you’ve got some idea of what it’s like to be the Elector. God, State, Industry. That’s a lot for a zook from Ton SurTon who is dancing his buns off in the Purple Beret one night and the next resting those same exquisite chunks of his anatomy on the Salamander Throne receiving the lauds of city, corporation, and computer.” He slipped a marq into the laughing sailor. The glass case shuddered and the malevolent matelot clashed wooden teeth and rolled about, cramped with mechanical guffaws. “Experience. That’s the key. Responsibility without experience is as much fun as a chocolate bedpan. Each Elector leaves behind him the memories of his term of office recorded on a biochip.” He removed the hair from behind his left ear and tapped with a fingernail. There was a clink. “I got one, too. In goes the biochip and voilà! You’re forty-three ex-Electors. Quite a party to be throwing inside your own head. And useful, too. I’ve had a great time with these folks. But what they don’t tell you, and what none of your predecessors knows”—he slapped the roaring automaton and it fell silent, mouth open—“is that in order to get you as Visible Symbol of the Compassionate Society onto one admittedly minute biochip, they have to wipe you clean as a toilet bowl, sister, sans memories, sans consciousness, sans self, sans everything.” He slipped a hand up the ballroom dancer’s skirt, ran his fingers over her plastic backside. “Wiped clean and born again, a
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