Queen Hell-On-Earth and the golden Port-a-Pottyby Baubo Blixem / Illustration by Alastair Laird / 19.12.2013
While Downy-Beard ate his ribs in a philosophical quandary The Torch Bearer writhed around her bed in a predicament of her own. Shit! What had gone wrong and how did this happen? Is it possible that the left hand did not know what the right hand was doing? Not under her watch! And now with that insufferable Praise-Worthy on her case.
“I suppose he still thinks he is the leader of this ship – bladdy arrogant sod. I am the trailblazer, the one and only frontrunner and that is all there is to it Praise-Worthy,” she screeched out loud in her mind. “All of you are my accessories and in case you have not noticed I’ve changed my look to African.”
She cackled hollowly into the night and felt her husband shifting besides her. She had an urge to hit him hard on the back – or even to crack open his head – but she restrained herself. It was nearly Christmas and more than anything she wanted power-on-tap. That is what she wished for as she fell into a frenzied torpor that was sure to bring on incubi.
And she too found herself in a panorama of paranoia as a devil man pursued her with profound perseverance. “If only I were back home” she cried out, and found herself returned to her own bed about to get up. She was suddenly in a good mood as she flung open her silk curtains and gazed lovingly upon the azure blue and green vista of sea and mountains and forests. “All mine,” she congratulated herself and just then she felt that familiar peristalsis in her intestinal area. Her face blanched. She shoved her feet into her ornate gold slippers and dashed for the bell.
In no time three cappuccino-hued women in frilly uniforms rushed through carrying a golden port-a-potty and silk wipes. By now The Torch Bearer had gone into shock and was gesticulating wildly – which meant she was just about to explode. The women pulled up her nightie, removed her pantaloons and carried her stricken body to the golden porta-potty.
Aaah – her sphincter relaxed and she burst open into the golden orifice, a huge smile spreading across her pale face.
“So – let’s see,” The Torch Bearer said to herself. “ 91% of top Knight positions are still held by my people … aaah… that is satisfying.” Her muscles relaxed at the thought and a hot bubbling squelching sound accompanied her grimace as she pushed with all her might. Her handmaidens brought their silk hankies up to their noses. Her husband bolted up in the bed, his face contorted in horror. He jumped up and rushed to the window.
“Must you!” he screamed – “There is a perfectly good toilet down the passageway with a door too.” He flung open the windows and lets in a gust of fresh moist air.
The Torch Bearer momentarily wondered what she was doing shitting in the middle of her bedroom.
“Dear, do shut up and get your head in from that window to help me calculate how many corporations are sponsoring our underhanded anti-black campaign this year. Have they started with those comics yet – the ones that use black-face humour and oversized genitals? Is that cartoonist with the big nose still on our payroll? I simply cannot wait to start on the black vagina project – tee hee – By the way –that company that wants to make fertilizer out of human waste – are they setting up in Khayelitsha today? – and remember – no community shares – none whatsoever – they don’t deserve to make a living out of their own shit – are you shitting me?”
“Right I am done,” she calls out, with a sudden realisation that she is indeed a Queen. Her three handmaidens rush towards her golden porta-potty with neutral expressions on their faces. One lifts her nighty, the other spreads her buttocks and the other wipes her arse. When they are complete they leave the room heaving the porta-potty and soiled silk out the door – retching as they reach the end of the passage way.
“Fucking lazy bitch!” screams one woman into the ether.
“Now for my meeting with my Head Handmaiden. Oh wherefore art thou Lady Tender-Beauty?”
“Here I am Queen Hell-on-Earth” – calls Lady Tender-Beauty from below her window.
“Oh for heaven’s sake – why is she still downstairs,“ cries the Queen – “Surely that wretched yet articulate black girl knows her place by now… and what did she just call me?”
She flung open the window and shoved her red-faced annoyance outside. “Lady Tender-Beauty” – she began in an imperious voice …
“Oh shut up you scatological expedient bitch!” screams Lady Tender-Beauty, throwing a missive directly at “Queen Hell-on-Earth’s”face.
The Queen cannot believe it. She is covered in people’s shit. Her head handmaiden is commandeering the poo wars – crying out in perfect English –
“Throw that shit man – One, two, three – Now!”
The Torch Bearer woke up with a start, her soul in turbulence. Without a doubt she knew this was not going to be a good Christmas for her and she began to lament her disingenuous and diabolical disposition, which had clearly landed her in the dung.
* Illustration © Alastair Laird