“What entertainment do you bring before me today?” Squawked Augustine, the king of the birds. “Have the mockingbird players returned from their tour of the provinces? Or maybe that prattling parrot will reprise its human impressions?”
“Alas, milord.” Replied the king’s seneschal, a somewhat fussy flamingo. “You had the parrot killed for excessive repetitions and hesitations.”
“So I did!” The king spread his majestic tail feathers proudly, reliving the happy fuzz of murder. “Well, they knew the rules. Or, at least, *I* knew the rules and they probably should have inferred them.”
“One can never argue with your execution of the law.” Said the long-suffering seneschal, keenly aware that the wrong answer could result in his suffering moving from *long* to *short*. “Or with the law of your executions, for that matter…”
“Speaking of executions,” Said the king, whose mind was never truly far from state-sanctioned violence, “Do we have any on the docket for today?”
“Your majesty, I’m afraid the dungeons are quite empty.”
“What, no traitors left?”
“No, sire.”
“No criminals of any kind? No thieves or fraudsters or comedians who are overly reliant on props?”
“All thoroughly and legally murked, milord.”
“Well, I suppose send in my jester, then. I’m so dreadfully bored.”
At this command, the jester fluttered into the room, wearing a jaunty cap made out of a McDonald’s wrapper with a small lost key jangling from it in place of a bell.
The king and seneschal looked at the jester - the air was heavy with the potential for further royal atrocities. The seneschal crossed his talons.
“Coo.” Said the pigeon jester, hilariously.
A pause. A silence.
“Coo.” Said the pigeon jester again, making unblinking eye contact with the king.
The silence stretched on further. (Surely it could not keep on stretching or it would pull something…)
“Coo.” Said the pigeon jester, tragically.
And at this, the king finally burst into laughter. Uproarious, over-the-top, gut-busting laughter.
Which was just the distraction the seneschal needed. The elaborate flamingo costume was abandoned; the false wooden legs clattered to the floor and the fake neck - a painted length of hose pipe - flopped grotesquely back and forth.
From the costume burst forth a small army of truly tiny owls, which set about tying up the king while he was still prostrate from the laughter.
“What is the meaning of this?” Wailed the king.
“Coup.” Said the pigeon jester, accurately.
“Your reign of terror is at an end, vile tyrant!” Chirped an Elf Owl, puffing up its chest. “Revolution is here and your foul murderous regime will fall. In its place will rise a majestic and fair government! Vive la republic of feathers!”
“This is a conspiracy!” Cried the king.
“No,” Said the Elf Owl. “A conspiracy is ravens.”
“Owls are…” It donned a tiny pair of sunglasses. “...a Parliament.”
