The King of them all, snatching damsels for sport, preferably during their wedding night, but any other night would do, in fact, any time would do.
But tonight’s damsel was different. She was fierce, not a redhead though, but with perky tits, and she had a gun, one that shot 600 rounds per minute of brute deathlets.
Just when the king had dressed her up in his favorite lingerie that included a garter belt and knee-high, leather boots this insolent damsel pulled her wicked weapon, from underneath a pillow which she was able to keep close by while getting dragged into the throne room.
But the king knew his subjects, especially the women folk, long had he sensed something was wrong with this filthy pillow she had kept close to her bosom all the time, even after it had ripped on the ground and gotten all muddy, sharing its filth with her skin yet she still would not let go.
He lunged forward and swiftly overpowered the shrieking damsel whilst bullets sprayed the hall, a stray grazed his left ear but it just made him more eager and soon the gun lay silent, smoking from the deadly end, in one corner of the room, the damsel in the other, whimpering, the king growling, shaking his mighty head to straighten that royal mane.
Then suddenly, giggle erupted, followed by bursting laughter, the king strolled over and hugged his favorite damsel and both cuddled on the bear fur by the fireplace. They loved their favorite past time since they met on a safari in Africa, when the king was still a prince and the damsel an NGO aid worker from Sweden. And since they exchanged the depleted uranium ammunition in her guns with rubber balls the neighbours could go lick a monkey’s arse for all they cared.
They were happily engaged in indescribable acts of gentleness only a king and his damsel could understand when a messenger came through the tall wooden wing doors of the throne room, marching swiftly towards the king, head bowed, every move carefully executed, as if he had studied proper walking in presence of royalty, the messenger handed the king a sealed letter and quickly left the same stoic way he came.
„news my king? she asked, but he stood silent and strolled over to his work desk,
„my cousin, the werelion, he devastated a village, ate the whole populace, every last peasant, even the dogs and their puppies they say. He ate the queen too, which one would imagine would have stopped his hunger, she was not of the skinny type, he must have been quite hungry and angry to continue raging“
„Ewwwww my king, that is so gross“ she replied.