He treads carefully upon the heads of his subjects – not through any sense of respect, but to prevent his silk stockings from becoming snagged on their bristles. He wishes he was wearing shoes, but knows it would hasten the decline of his popularity if his wish were to come true.
Rather; he wishes his subjects would shave their heads every day, as he has countless times during his seemingly endless journey to his castle. In fact; King Ronald Pump would like them to do exactly as he says regarding all of his wishes, because he expects to be obeyed ....
A shrill, piercing whistle penetrates President Ronald Pump’s regal rest, which encourages him to jerk into a sitting position while producing a loud, unexpected honk of morning gas. Buster, his loyal pet beagle, reacts to the sound as though a klaxon announcing his master’s awakening, and greets Ronald by gently slapping his face with his wet, floppy tongue.
“Buster! No!” – Ronald commands, while flapping a hand to shoo his companion away and poking him in an eye as he does so, and then – “STOP!” – to his voice-controlled alarm clock, which whistles persistently and increasingly louder.
“Oh! .... stop .... stop .... stop .... STOP .... GODDAMMIT!” – Ronald shrieks, before sweeping the device from the bedside table and onto the floor.
Silence reigns after a sizzling whistle.
Ronald flops backwards onto the king-size bed and draws the thick, silk-enveloped duvet over his head, closes his eyes, and attempts to drift back off to sleep, so he may reach the castle of his subconscious, for it seems of the utmost importance that he should. The dream’s damp, sunlit air smells of farts, so he tosses the duvet back, bounces on his bottom out of bed and hurries through to the presidential bathroom, where he steps out of his finest linen pyjama trousers.
“Shit!” – Ronald murmurs, when he bends to inspect a wet fart print within. He absent-mindedly grasps his morning erection and performs masturbatory movements, just as Buster approaches from behind and begins to lap at the crevice of President Ronald Pump’s soiled bottom. Although Ronald is somewhat disturbed by his own judgement, he allows Buster to lap away, since they are alone and he thinks it feels rather nice.
“Ahem! .... Mister President?”
“WHAT?! Oh! How unfortunate! .... BUSTER!” – Ronald exclaims, scoldingly, as he springs upright and turns to swipe Buster’s snout with the trousers – “he was just .... moist gas .... foie gras .... I had .... um .… by accident, you see .... and I was .... or perhaps it was the duck pâté.”
Buster’s poked eye winks wetly at Ronald, while the other offers the kind of innocent, level stare only animals are capable of. Ronald covers his fading erection with the trousers and smiles innocently at the butler.
“I can take those, Sir” – the butler suggests, while grasping the trousers as though a delicate hand proffered to shake. The President yanks a hand towel from a golden loop, secured upon ornate tiles within the spacious bathroom, and slides it under the trousers before releasing his grip on them.
“Ah, yes. If you wouldn’t mind. Unusual occurrence. Never happened before. As I said, it may have been the duck pâté or foie gras …. mmm …. rich food .... something off, anyway .... duck eggs.”
“Indeed. Happens to the best of us, Mister President.”
“Really? Has it happened to you?”
“Well, no, Sir. Not since my childhood. But having worked in a great many ....”
“Yes, yes. I understand” – Ronald snaps. “Well, if you could just have these cleaned and dried by this evening. They are my favourite pyjamas, and I find it difficult to sleep while wearing others.”
“Of course, Mister President” – the butler replies, and strides elegantly, with practised ease, backwards from the bathroom and out of sight.
Ronald slips from the pyjama shirt and into the shower, where he waits until the jet of cold water from the showerhead rushes comfortably warm. Ronald frowns at Buster, who sits on the tiled floor of the bathroom, observing him, while occasionally tilting his head to one side and winking. Ronald remembers a strange sex scandal from decades before, involving a British Prime Minister and a dead pig; the Porkgate scandal, or something of the sort.
“Ugh!” – Ronald exclaims, while drawing the shower curtain closed and turning his back towards Buster. “I am a man and I like ladies” – he assures himself, as he begins to twiddle with his manhood.
He closes his eyes and conjures images of past lovers, but their flaws disturb his fantasy. A piteously unkempt bikini line, as though a desirable residence where the gardener has died. Unbalanced bosoms; as obvious and dramatic as the planet’s wealth divide. A bottom upheld by a standing mistress, yet seeming as though it is trying to sit. Nipples that look like old, fluffy, wrapper-less sweets one finds in the corner of one’s pocket.
President Ronald Pump’s erection rises and falls like the swell of a stormy sea. He doesn’t even bother to bring his wife into his fantasy because they haven’t made love for the best part of a year. He had always been put off by the loud coital farting that had turned so many near orgasms into fits of giggles.
“Why did they always occur then, at that precise moment?” – Ronald wonders aloud. He stops masturbating to cast a bewildered stare into nowhere, hose soap suds from his disillusioned dong, and blow loud raspberries that reverberate around the tiled shower room.