Pencils vs. The Red Pen of Death™
The Undisputed Queen of the No-Niche Niche
And Empress of Eloquence Prepares for Battle
The undisputed Queen of the No-Niche Niche took her morning coffee from the soft, silent paws of Sir Plot Bunny, who slipped a copy of the morning newspaper under the delicate bone china plate that held Her Majesty’s buttery, almond-paste croissant. Sir Plot Bunny hopped away to a safe and discreet distance before Her Majesty had a chance to unfurl and read the morning funny pages.
“Oh, what now?” she snorted, getting nose-coffee all over her lovely, rose and cream damask tablecloth. “Oh, those boys. Will they never learn?” All had failed to heed the wisdom of the Pretender King, Rasheed, who had, at least, mentioned her — adding “Queen of Eloquence” to the title he had acknowledged, many years ago — even as he crept (figuratively) up the stone stairs to the marble throne. Did he think to charm her and distract her with accolades? It was, after all, Rasheed who had encouraged The Queen to conquer Medium in the first place; he should not feign surprise now, and act as if it were the domain of Knaves.
She debated letting them fight it out amongst themselves, bashing each other with words and pointy wooden graphite sticks until only one remained. It would certainly make her life easier, to let them take one another out first. The Queen smiled as she honed the razor-edged nib of her Red Pen of Death™ in delicious anticipation of battle.
But perhaps it wouldn’t come to that.
Her Majesty had noticed that something was afoot, when she read Charles Roast’s boast:
“So, women want to shake you, babies want to throw up on you, and men, apparently, want to play ‘King of the Mountain’ with you?” She grew more suspicious when, upon asking, “What prompted all this?” he grew quiet.
“Nothing,” he said, looking at his shoes.
Rasheed was also uncharacteristically restrained, when the Queen asked her normally-humble friend about his bold salvo:
“Oh, nothing,” he said. He offered Her Majesty toast, which was odd and had the face of a mountain man singed into it. She promptly sold it on eBay for $16,509.57 and bought a coffee plantation. For some reason, this only made Rasheed hang his head and wander off, muttering dejectedly.
“Next time, try purple notebooks!” the Queen sang out gaily, raising her very large mug.
It’s never just “nothing” with these two.
The Queen walked over to the window of her Mind Palace — a cross between a treehouse, Versailles, and Downton Abbey, with a small beach and a vast ocean just outside her bedroom — and noticed that there were little encampments growing on the barely-visible fringes of her lands. With her elegant spyglass, she could just make out Timothy Key’s standard. From a distance, it appeared to be a pink and blue narwhal rampant, with a sprinkle-laden ice cream cone inverted on its horn. Odd and not at all intimidating.
“Et tu, Tim Key?” she muttered. The Queen had been considering offering him a lucrative contract for three of his prized unicorns to add to her stables.
On the next hill, she saw a sign proclaiming, “These campgrounds belong to the Honorable and Wise King Trent Swanson.” He looked earnest and a little adorable, like a Boy Scout, as his minions — all three of them — paraded him around in a little wooden lawn chair festooned in red velvet and gold fringe. Well, wise kings don’t make quite such an obvious target of themselves, do they?
The Queen, feeling benevolent and merciful, held out her hand and waggled her fingers. Sir Plot Bunny brought her her rubber-band shooter. She took aim and pu-u-u-u-u-ulled — released! — ZING! Sir Trent swatted himself in the neck. Again, laughing merrily, she reloaded and pulled again — released! — SPLIMP! Sir Trent, confused, cupped his stinging derriere. Sir Plot Bunny shook his head. “You’re right, Sir Plot Bunny, he is so earnest. You think that I should let him try his luck with the others?”
Sir Plot Bunny’s ears waggled, and the Queen handed him back the rubber-band shooter.
Looking to the east, she noticed the Pirate T. Mark Mangum, who liked to be called “Admiral,” but was often called “TMM” for “Too Much Merriment” behind his back, sailing up the Bay of Litany in his Dingy Dinghy. It’s hard to get your crew to swab the decks when they’re up to their alligators in the rum casks. The Queen smiled. She could do with a rum cake. Trade with the pirate was not out of the question. Letting him sully the throne with his blackened boots was. The Queen was unconcerned; Mangum was not likely to give up the sea for a marble throne. He would die of boredom within the year, should he try.
Real Queens and, perhaps, the conniving Dr. Mehmet Yıldız, know that there is a vast and sufficient empire to govern; they know how to divide, delegate, and share the spoils of war. Let the boys exhaust themselves, pissing in the snow and measuring their pencils.
The Queen of the No-Niche Niche began to gather her Army of Serverweasels and Gerbils of Despair, as she composed a gracious invitation to battle the boys (should battle be necessary, which she doubted) over coffee, crumpets, and an intriguingly life-like chess board with her sisters, who were not likely to let the pretenders’ heads inflate like hot-air balloons on a summer night in Albuquerque without at least flinging a bit of wit, a pithy poem, or a sage whale of a tale their way.
Dear Chris Hedges, Tree Langdon ♾️, Amy Marley, Sherry McGuinn, Susan Brearley, Sharon Hurley Hall, Ann K Frailey, Ann Venkataraman, Jenine Bsharah Baines, Helen Cassidy Page, Jaye Frances, Marian Baz, Charlene Fate, Debbie D., Jill Ebstein, Elisabeth Khan, Eli Snow, Jezebel, and all the other Queens and Princesses of the Realm, do let’s meet for a nosh and nip this nonsense in the bud, shall we?
Love always, Holly, Queen of the No-Niche Niche and Eloquence
If you choose to play along, swear fealty or declare a treaty, for the Queen of the No-Niche Niche and Empress of Eloquence takes no prisoners. Be sure to tag the boys: Timothy Key, Charles Roast, Rasheed Hooda, T. Mark Mangum, Trent Swanson and show them you are armed to the teeth for a battle of wits.
