MD3 – A Prince in Question

[BeaWolf]

With The Rat King interview ruined, soaked, and officially declared “too damp for publication,” Stibble Erkwhell did what all great editors do after disaster.

 

He learned absolutely nothing.

 

“The problem,” Stibble announced, standing on a chair in The Blitz! office, “was that we interviewed the wrong kind of royalty.”

 

Gary Spitstorm leaned back in his chair. “Meaning?”

 

Stibble smiled. “A prince!”

 

That was how Gary ended up in the locker room of an Imperial Nobility team minutes before kick off, holding a notebook, a pencil, and the deep suspicion that he had been tricked by someone shorter than his desk.

 

The room smelled of polished armour, expensive oils, nervous sweat, and the kind of confidence usually found in people who had never had to carry their own luggage.

 

At the centre of it stood a young nobleman in immaculate kit, surrounded by attendants adjusting straps, brushing dust from his shoulders, and generally behaving as though he might shatter if exposed to reality.

 

Gary coughed as to make notice of himself. “So you are Prince Albrecht von Somethingsomething?” he said.

 

The nobleman turned slowly and looked at Gary as he had seen a toad. “Prince Albrecht Valerian Augustus von Hochensnob.”

 

Gary studied him with care, the polished boots, the perfumed hair, the spotless gloves, the attendants orbiting him like frightened moons. “That’s a lot of name for not much prince.”

 

The locker room went still.

 

Prince Albrecht’s smile vanished. “I beg your pardon?”

 

Gary closed the notebook with one finger still marking the page.

 

“You don’t look like a proper prince. Not like one I met years back. Big fellow. Shining armour. Sword. Jaw like a castle gate. Had just rescued a damsel from a burning tower and looked like he’d do it again before breakfast..”

 

The attendants looked horrified.

 

The prince stepped forward, moving with the stiff dignity of a man who believed walking was something nobility should not have to do too often. “I will not be insulted by an orc with a pencil.”

 

Gary looked down at the pencil. “Fair.” He said and tucked it behind his right ear.

 

“You have no understanding of bloodline,” the prince shouted in anger. “No understanding of refinement. No understanding of what separates nobility from common brutality.”

 

Gary smiled. It was a small smile. The kind that suggested common brutality was willing to explain itself.

 

The prince slapped the notebook from Gary’s hand as trying to make some sort of point. The notebook hit the floor and slid beneath a bench.

 

Gary looked at the prince. “I guess you owe the notebook an apology.”

 

“I owe no apology to the likes of you.” he said. That was the last complete sentence Prince Albrecht Valerian Augustus von Hochensnob managed before kick off.

 

Gary's fist crossed the space between them with surprising speed. The prince raised one elegant hand, perhaps to defend himself, perhaps to call an attendant, perhaps to request a formal declaration of hostilities.

 

There was a sound like a melon being introduced to a brick as Prince Albrecht folded backward over the bench, legs briefly pointing at the ceiling, before landing in a heap of silk, polish, and suddenly questionable breeding.

 

By the time team staff dragged Gary away from the locker room, the match had begun without its prince.

 

When he returned to The Blitz! office, Stibble was waiting with hopeful eyes and a tray of crown shaped biscuits. “How did the princely interview go?”

 

Stibble’s face fell as he noticed the bloody notebook. “No interview?”

 

Gary did not look up. “Interview?” he said, reaching for a biscuit. “No!”