The arrogant knave sat in the confining silence, itching his ears as the movement of his bouncing legs were the only thing keeping him gripped on sanity. His composure was admirable, but who knew how long it would be until this unhopeful jester broke the maddened bounds that kept him down.
The jester took the gawking and insulting jests of another, but a fool can only handle so much bitter before his chitter turns into bites.
"I bore as I stood by the archway, the dining room was rich in smell, but poor in sight. The wicked king sat on his wide stool. The slob, the nasty nasty slob. The food he ate was enough for a cooking itself, but he hordes it, he hordes it all like a greedy swine who does not know his own stomach!
I could be stricken with famine, dying as my body consumes itself, starving to death- but a look at the king eating his wealthy slop would make me lose my taste for hunger. He makes me question my own desire for food.
Ugh, he is so filthy! So! So! Filthy! His nubby fingers look like sun-bleached sausages, how they make me gag! I hate the fat king, but I cannot say. I cannot say anything about his weight. Ho ho ho, if I did, well that may be the end of me. You see, I've said such a thing before. Marcius heard thumping, loud thumping, and he turned to me to ask,
"Aye, do you hear that? That a thump and a 'tump...?"
Well, I turned to him and said, "Hide! Its the king!"
It was not the king. I believe someone was dragging a donkey carcass down to the lower keep, don't ask me why...I could not find my answer! Because I was locked in the dungeon for my words! Preposterous! Locking up a Jester for what he speaks!?
The king laughed at me with his sour tongue curled and a wicked dagger in hand. With that wretched blade he cut off the tips of my ears. But I can still hear, I can still hear very well. Too well, if you ask me.
They assume me to be brittle-brained, but I am not stupid. I am not ill. I know the mean, mean words they speak. They are all snakes. The king, his daughters, his whoresons, his ugly witch of a wife- even his cousins. I would send them all to the slaughter if it was possible to make a wagon to bear their weighty meats. "
The jester wallowed in his own hatred, cooking him alive by his feet. He stood there, a grimace starting to paint his pallid face. The room was lit by a few torches and lanterns, which licked the walls and hungry faces with their warm light, but they did not reach the corner whence the jester stood, basking him in a shadow. He would have sunken easily into the darkness, but the vibrancy of his red and purple attire made him easy to click in a glance.
He crossed his arms as he watched the royal family consume their feast, their special feast that he was no longer allowed to partake in, not unless he was invited. So he stood there, waiting and waiting, just hoping the greedy gluttonous king would spare some scraps to give the poor jester a firm stomach.
It was when the feast was nearing its finish, the daughters had left the table and the sons did not have enough courage to ask for seconds. The king looked over at the jester and pointed at a barren seat.
He, the jester, skipped over to the table. "Aye! You gesture for the jester! Is it a calling for me to eat? Or for you to pester, Milord?" He said in his sly and pitchy voice.
The king laughed in a bellow and slid the jester a saucer filled with thick broth and chucks of meat and vegetables.
The jester looked at it, and then at the king, "Oh but however will I eat such a meal without a spoon?"
One of the kings sons barked at the fool, "For the love of Christ, Jester, use your hands." He looked back down at his plate before muttering words in his breathless breath, "A witless fool is as good as dead..."
The fool had a thin smile stretch across his face as he hummed a particular tune, which made the king lean back in his chair as he rest his clammy sausage hands on top of his barrel of a belly. The jester began to sing a song.
"Oh how a spoon is forgotten of me,
and the broth is warm, but as word from he,
I will scoop the soup with my hands of glee
and promptly throw it in the face of thee!"
The whimsical jester threw a handful of soup at the son, who jumped from his chair. Chucks of meat clinged onto his hair and the red broth dripped from his freckled face.
Oh thy witiful pitiful fool.
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