A newspaper flit, fluttered, and flourished across a downtown intersection of Capital City. Sunlight desperately clawed its way through roiling clouds, now empty of moisture, casting a hot, humid, and hostile sheen to the cement below. On a once bustling street corner, an old spoon player and tinkerer, knee-hammered out a strange melody, adding to the archaic and dreary feel of the day.
“This old man, he gave two…,” his song discordantly tolled.
Mr. Cotterill and his frail wife, paying little mind to the unfortunate tune, hurried to their royal appointment. It’d been long months since they’d celebrated their king’s defiance and promises of prosperity, but words cannot make grain grow, harvest, or sell. Storehouses burst at seams with last season’s unsold life while new hope rotted on the vine under the harsh sun of uncertain times. The king had assured all, his hands would assuage the deepest ills of his efforts to demand equitable exchange with their neighbors. For this guarantee, the Cotterills traveled to the Maga Birthing Center – the temple of their king – to acquire aid. The place where great ideas and great people are made, Cotterill heard the slogan ring in his head.
But as that thought reverberated, swarms of citizens lining the ostentatious walls of the Center pulled him from his worried woolgathering to the nervous voice of his wife. “Will we have to stand in line?”
“No, we have an appointment. Our place is guaranteed,” he assured.
Dread did not abate. Mrs. Cotterill’s tension gnawed at her as she regarded those passed. A young woman leaned exhausted against the tarnished facade, her belly more gravid than Mrs. Cotterill’s mind. A book bag sat unceremoniously at her feet, while her blouse, barely able to cover the debt of her condition, desperately climbed her hungry body even as the girls hands struggled to adjust the hem to a respectable place at her waist.
A steely man, pushing a derelict conveyance, rusted and bruised with age caught the farmer’s wife next. He huffed, scuffed, and scowled. “They said it’s cost effective,” he glowered at the creaking cart. “Bah! cheap and defective is what it is,” his growling voice met her surprised stare. Mrs. Cotterill gasped and clutched feverishly at her husband’s arm who hurried them both along.
Across the street a clamor was rising. Internationals and immigrants shouted from behind a bright yellow tape denying them closer proximity. The cacophony of their protests assaulted the armed police and those near the entrance of the Maga building, in vain.
Nearby, a news truck’s repeated attempts to start caught her attention. Blazing red lettering W.F.A.K.E. Capital City’s Voice announced the news station’s affiliation. Sympathizers with rebels and unceasingly pressing for revolt, Mrs. Cotterill thought disparagingly. The scene was too much. She pressed into her husband’s shoulder, his hand gently rubbing hers where it clasped him.
Crystalline temple doors flew open, on the couples approach. A regal and haute gentleman emerged. A diminutive woman of dark tresses and olive skin quickly followed. “…and he worries about milk? Mr. Trudo” the southern born noble shook her head.
“And what about that wall? He’ll never fund it,” came the response, as the two hurried to waiting town car and driver.
Mr. Cotterill sighed. He failed to understand elites, who never questioned the source of their success nor gave gratitude for the work the rest of them did. This was all he could consider as they entered the opulent reception hall for their appointed meeting.
“Dah! I told you,” the palatalized vowels of an obviously foreign attendant assaulted the couple pausing a respectable distance from reception. “We’ll not accept delivery! It’s foolish to quarrel.” An emissary from the far east, stretched out his hand in warning, as two darkly dressed men with shaded glasses seized his arms and dragged him out.
“I swear, Vlad!!” shouting fervently. “The debt must be…” the emissary’s voice faded as he was humiliatingly tossed onto the slick stone outside. The doors sealing closed behind him.
“Yes, May I help you?” Chamberlain Vlad, summoned.
“Um, yes. We have an appointment,” the farmer waited as the man flipped impatiently through a register. “Mr. Cotterill… C.O.T…”
“Ah yes,” the chamberlain interrupted. “Unfortunately, due to cuts in deliveries,” he glanced to the door. “You’ll need to be… more patient. His Majesty works ardently but negotiations are not finalized.” He proceeded to direct the country vassals to a waiting area. However, before acquiescing, Mr Cotterill implored, “My wife is tired. Hungry. Is there nothing?”
Begrudgingly silent, Vlad handed him a simple brown bag. A shadowed confusion and shock grew on Mr. Cotterill’s face. Vlad met it with a wry and unsympathetic smile.
“Patience,” Vlad stated flatly then turned to resume his duties.
An asian man sat across from them, seated next to a woman crunching passively on a small brown cracker, while a young boy rested on her lap. A familiar bag lay nearby, opened.
Hours passed when a ruckus disrupted all. Blackwood doors swung open as a plumb greyish man, large of snout and ear, dressed in white erupted forth shouting orders and reverently bearing a tray of delights. Hamburgers, fries, cookies and cakes, towered up in a glorious array of color and scent.
“Ah, Mr. Gio P. Ardee,” a marmish woman, Cotterill recognized as the King’s mouthpiece, hurried to direct the overburdened chef. “His tremendous majesty is expecting you”
Mr. Cotterill regarded his token bag. A sick feeling arose in him. Knick Knack Treats, in old font and worn paper stare back at him.
Beyond the common place the king took council. Fading conversation slithered out as the chef returned empty handed.
“… I said ‘Let them eat cake!” an female chimed.
“Me? Incredible fan of cake,” the King’s voice rang. “Let them eat dog treats!”
Mr. Cotterill, hearing his wife’s empty belly growl, opened the bag, withdrew a treat and handed it to her. “Eat this.”
***
Darkness fell. The tinkerer packed up and went rolling home.