Spiceday

The magnificence of the Imperial Palace is legendary. There's gold leaf upon gold leaf, there's an abdundance of gold and gold-colored ornament piled on every surface, there are models of Imperial strike craft and bundled flags of every Imperial Stormforce Legion in every corner.

You literally cannot move for the bling. On state occasions when dignitaries are received, the crowd of grandees have to edge their way around the standards, shuffle past Stormforce Legionnaires with sabers held menacingly out, and step over gilt vases filled to bursting with plastic clematis and hydrangeas. Dukes and warlords stand shoulder to shoulder with spice speculators and imperially-licensed procurers in childflesh. Odd scents mingle and vie with the central putresent stench of the Baron, the occupant of the Great Desk in these forsaken days.

Of course the old Emperor is nowhere to be seen. He's been retired to the nursery ward, where some rumors have him being fed pap and vitamin sluice, while other rumors speak of him being removed by a simple slice to the throat or a pillow over the face. It makes no difference; he's no longer around, and Baron Nikkellodon has become Imperial Regent. He sprawls behind the Great Desk and sneers between his pustules at the assembled lords of Empire as he continues his discourse.

He's in the midst of a story that started some thirty minutes before this. When it began it was an anecdote about how the Baron got even with an enemy in his youthful years, sneaking up behind him at an orgy and clubbing him on the skull before slicing off his member and leaving the chamber waving the man's manhood as a pennant of victory. Those who were around at that time know that the feat was actually performed by the Baron's lead assassin Royan Konn, but wisely have chosen not to contradict the tale and give the Baron the lie in public.

In the half-hour since it started, the Baron's harangue has moved on from that long-ago incident to discuss the prevalence of traitors inside the Empire, many of them present in the room today, to discuss how wonderfully the Imperial economy has been performing under his stewardship despite the lying reports from the Guild of Traders, to darkly hinting at new territories soon to feel the wrath of the Storm Legions, finally to land upon the fascinating topic of the tapestries which grace the audience chamber, chosen by himself and displaying great taste and exquisite refinement.

Finally he hands over to Mentat Steven, who's been chewing serenitybeans to keep himself from roaring with frustration at his liege lord's long-winded digressions. Mentat Steven wastes no time at all. He fixes his mismatching eyes on a point in the corner of the room and grinds his jaw, then blasts off:

"My lord Baron wishes you all to know that you've been deficient in loyalty and suspect in patriotic zeal. From this moment all Imperial attendants will be required to wear a fidelity collar containing both a lethal venom and an explosive. If your mutterings are detected to be treasonous, you will die a painful death as treefrog poison will be released into your bloodstream. If merely slacking, you will be exploded and lose your head. Heads."

He finishes his announcement, breathing heavily and gnashing his teeth in some strange abandon of joy. He dips his head towards the Baron and snuffles up his scent, apparently now in some paroxysm of murderous intent.

Around the chamber there's consternation. Attendees mutter to each other in puzzlement and look right and left. Who has Mentat Steven been addressing? His habit of speaking as if to a remote space, of avoiding eye contact and projecting his voice everywhere and nowhere, has left them baffled.

"You! ASSHOLES! All of you!"

Mentat Steven is screaming now, still focussing his attention on a far corner of the chamber. "You will ALL be fitted for a collar. Direct yourselves calmly and in steady order towards the next room where the fitting will take place. That is all."

Stormforce Troopers move away from their ceremonial guard stations and begin herding the dignitaries, ministers, business leaders, celebrities and pimps into a corridor. There are no protestations, no further sound, except for the steady cackling of the Baron and the frenzied breathing of the Mentat as he leans in to drink up the Baron's delightful stench.

END OF PART 5

Care to chuck in a piece o'change, guv?

THE CHUNKA CHANGE JAR