Everyone knows about Kate Middleton’s upcoming baby. Hell, the world is just waiting for that
woman to shit that baby out of her pussy and give the tabloids something new to
prattle on endlessly about. But what
most people don’t know about is the Queen of England’s upcoming childbirth.
It all started about two years ago when you and the Queen
(she’s a friend) started drinking late one night. You bet the Queen you’d be able to put her
under the table and, while she is a tremendous old lady, you did just that (by
a hair). The forfeit on the bet was to
become impregnated with the other’s child.
Both you and the Queen knew that natural measures would never accomplish
that: the Queen is super old, and you’re a eunuch. So you did what you always do in these
situations: you turned to black magic.
The same black magic that got you that job as middle manager
at a technical support firm without the slightest knowledge of computrons came
in handy as you attempted to conjure a baby into the withered womb of the Queen
of England. And conjure you did – you wove
threads of time and space and hummed under your breath. At one point sage was lit. The end result: the Queen had a tiny
homunculus growing inside her, a facsimile of man as child, a feverish and
fiendish thing with a pulse and a brain and hair and teeth and claws hurriedly
festering in her belly.
The Queen was an old hand at keeping things like this under
wraps. She leaked photos of Pippa to keep
the tabloids happy and wore bulky clothes in public and told people they were “the
royal garments” so that her subjects wouldn’t see her growing belly. She’s kept it up for around two years now,
occasionally having you stop by to check on the fetus (which she calls a “foetus”)
with magic. It’s been healthy and hale,
and growing in tiny increments. Today,
it’s going to emerge.
You’ll be present for the event, using your strongest
dwoemers to keep the demon from ripping the queen to shreds entirely. You won’t be able to spare her vagina the
tribulation of birthing a demon: its claws will latch into the lining and rip
and tear and snag. A gaggle of
blindfolded peasants will stand nearby as they listen in horror and let a royal
physician, also blindfolded, pump their blood into the Queen.
When all is done, the Queen will be exhausted, but in her
hands, she’ll hold a tiny snarling creature of horns and claws with burning red
eyes. She’ll look at you with joy in her
eyes, then murmur up: “I think we should call him Charles.” Then she’ll burst out laughing and drop the
demon to the floor. The demon, true to
form, will scuttle out of his swaddle and to his feet and begin creeping around
behind the Queen, breathing heavily and occasionally emitting a sort of keening
moan. You’ll want to joke back to the
Queen that indeed, it does remind you of Charles, that it might even be an
improvement of sorts, but there are limits to your friendship, and the boy is
her son. You’ll still your tongue.
Congratulations on Putting a Baby in the Queen!
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