In the fifth month of the first year of the second quadrannium of Gambrach, Shiwajun had a dream. When he awoke, he could not remember the dream, yet it troubled him greatly. So, he sent for Shangolulu, King of Ekonnos, his current only begotten son in whom he was well pleased.
“Lulu, my boy-king. I had a dream that troubled me so but I remember it not. How can this be?” asked Shiwajun
“It must have been a dream about King Ambsalom, my predecessor. Remember ye not, O great Shiwajun, that he had the bodacity to challenge your parochial vision for Ekonnos? Or that he accused you of anointing a rehabilitee or the throne? Casting aspersions and bring opprobrium to your most sanctified name? I know, without doubt, that this is the cause of your consternation.”
“Surely, you must be right , my little one. I must bring a Wahala Morghulis upon Ambsalom for this Great Iniquity.”
Thus it was that Ambsalom found himself the subject of an investigation by the Everly Failing at Convictions Commission, who suddenly found all manner of unexplainable coin in his repository at the houses of usury. And Ambsalom was greatly troubled, forgetting even for many days to put on his waist trainer when departing his home.
And Shiwajun delighted in the troubles of Ambsalom, the castaway. So focused was he on the suffering of Ambsalom that he did not realise that another of his proteges, Lord Chickener, First Chancellor of the Royal Poll Tax, received a letter from Bakky Arri, Gambrach’s head honcho. It read –
Dear Lord Chickener,
Greetings in the name of our King, Master and Guiding Light, His Most Excellency King Gambrach. I write to you to demand, in the name of the King Most Holy, what the hell is going on with the Poll Tax collections mate!?!? This is the glorious era of the next level, man. You know this! So why, pray tell, are the collections moving in the reverse??? Gambrach can’t get jiggy with your delinquent collections. Fix up. You have the esteem of my assured regards, always. Your Boy, Bakky.
And the scroll of the letter was published unto the people in Social Mediana, yea into Twillistia, the Book of Faces and the Instagraph. And there was no gaddem chill because, for many years, the Spinning Quills of Gambrach had sung the praises of the several folded increase in poll tax collections under Gambrach.
And then there was more unchill, as news reached the people that the Magistracy of Electoralis (MoE) had overturned the election of Dinobetes Mellitus into the senatii and had ordered a fresh contest with his perennial adversary, Smarty Panties. Wherefore, as was customary with him, Dinobetes Mellitus broke out into chart-busting song from the ancient bard, Lady Diana of Rose, singing “I’m coming back! I want the world to know Smarty’s got no show!”
It was at or around this time that Gambrach decided that he had to do something he had never done before in his life – hold and chair a strategy session and engage in a semblance of deep intellectuality; he would go into conclave with the new members of Fecundia, so that he could steep them in the Fecundity he expected of them.
And the Lovengers greeted this with their customary shouts of praise. Nobody like Gambrach! Gambrach is unpresidented! Gambrach the all-seeing eye! Praise be!
But then, it came to the attention of the Social Medianites, that Gambrach had nominated fellow man of Gunn, Gashi Maga, indicted of pilfery since the time of Bar Charr the Appleonious, into his council in Fecundia. Yea, the people were completely incensed that such a black sheep could find its way into the sanctified Fecundia council of Gambrach.
But behold, as that unchill pervaded the land, news reached the people from Bigbumbumistan that the spirit of Zen O’Phobe, patriot saint of hayturrs, had descended upon the Bigbumbumistanis and the Jirrians in the land were under attack from them. Bigbumbumistani men were renowned for their lack of Game and they begrudged the Jirrians in their midst of their swag and pheromonous magnetism and bludgeoned and cudgelled them for it.
Lo, the people looked unto Bedrock in Boo Jar, hopeful that their King wouldest rise in holy and righteous anger and demand that King Drama Xhosa of Bigbumbumistan wouldst call his people to order. But help did not come quickly from Boo Jar and when it came, it came most tepidly.
The people thought that Gambrach heard them not, but their cry didst reach him in Bedrock.
“O King,” began Gar Bar, his chief scribe, “shall I invoke a most holy Gambrachian thunderstrike on Bigbumbumistan? Shall we evict their most senior emissary? What grand gesture shall we make?”
“We shall send them a warning – we shall send several placatory envoys, with the Code of Esther, to tell them that we are dissatisfied. I myself shall go and partake of the Code of Esther and abroadian hospitality.”
“But sire, the people demand strong decisive leadership. A show of force, perhaps.”
“But their army is superior to ours, and very rested, not contending like we are with the Haramites of Boko. Exactly how forceful can I be?” enquired Gambrach. “Like the ancient prophet Mikhail Jacksonovich said to Paulius Bi-Courtney – I am a lover, not a fighter. I love my sedentary life.”
“You know what? Where’s the King’s Hand, Osinoshin? Send him to engage in some grammatical Too-Wrenchy in my name. That should do.”
But it did not do. And like, for reals, there was no gaddem chill in the land!