“They found that man 'not guilty' who killed that young boy,” he said.
“I know. I heard.”
“Why? How?”
“ I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
“You mean when he shot him?”
“No, I meant at the trial. Nobody was there when he shot
him.”
“Too bad. They might have stopped him.”
“Maybe. But that is what the jury faced. It’s seems hard to
get past the ‘reasonable doubt’ standard if when there were no witnesses.”
“But for the fact …”
I interrupted. “There is no ‘but for the fact’ rule in that state.”
“So someone aggravates you, you just shoot them.”
“Only if you aggravate them enough that they take a swing at
you.”
He thought for a moment. “Perhaps it is best we not move there,
particularly if Mrs. Big Dope were to come with us.”
“Just who the hell are you supposed to be, anyway?”
“Don’t you read the news?”
“Not much lately.”
“I will be King of England someday.”
“Oh please.”
He cocked his head to one side. As he did, the crown began to slip. He grabbed it with one hand and straightened it. “Explain monarchies to me.”
“It is a form of government whereby people are ruled, or
nominally ruled, by a monarch.” I grinned. Tautologies make his circuits smoke.
“Say, a king such as I?”
“I think Great Britain enjoys a limited monarchy.”
“Meaning that its ruler doesn’t actually rule?”
“Something like that.”
“Doesn’t do anything?”
“Not unless they want to.”
“They get paid for this?”
“Oh, you’d better believe.”
“And I will get to do it?”
I played along. “As long as you don’t do something really
stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, say divorce one of the most beautiful women in the world
in order to marry one of the homeliest.”
He pondered this. “Are we talking really beautiful?”
“Really, really. The kind dreams are made of.”
He straightened his back and assumed a royal bearing. “One will try to meet one’s duty as it is presented.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“So how is this monarch chosen, by tests of strength,
ability, or cunning?”
“No, by inheritance.”
“Inheritance?” I could almost hear those Falloonian
brain-gears humming. “You mean by luck?”
“Precisely.”
“So if my sperm-egg coupling had occurred, say, in rural Alabama, I might not enjoy the privileges for which I am destined?”
“Quite likely.”
“I might even be regarded simply as one of your history’s pedis memoranda?”
“A footnote, yes.”
“Like the lad in Florida?”
“Much like that.”
“Sad,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “A real tragedy.”
He snapped his head toward me. “What tragedy?”
“The killing in Florida.”
 |
| Would someone please be so kind as to tell Mrs. Big Dope that she must obey me as everyone else does? - C.W. |
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, straightening his crown. “I
was referring to the great burdens that will be placed on me to behave
appropriately.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Hardly,” he said, and a cold tone took over his voice as
his face froze into a stony and frightening stare. I waited.
“After all, one can’t be mentally distracted over the death
of any young black boy who doesn’t show the proper respect.”
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