Good night, sweet prince

It’s raining again. I hate this rotten country.

The kid’s slumped in the chair like he hasn’t sat down in months. He looks like he lives with ghosts. I pour two drinks, but he waves his off, taps his flask. “I only drink my own.”

I tell him: “I’ve heard the stories. Treachery. Murder. Poison. Two dead kings, a queen, a prince, a half-dozen others.” I finish one glass, start the other. “It broke bad, kid. Sorry. But they shut the books. It’s the Pollack’s show now.”

“That’s just it,” he says. “That ain’t what went down. The story’s wrong.”


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