The world is always and forever my orange. Yes I know the traditional metaphor here would be “apple”, but that would be the safe answer. Safety is clearly overrated in world conquest. Can’t conquer the world without taking a few risks. Or breaking a few eggs.
Let there be no doubt about it. Conquest is my goal.
When I rule the world, apples will be forbidden.
Safety will no longer be job one.
And the doctors will have to stay away on their own.
My name is Bart Queen, which certainly paints a picture of my childhood all by itself. In many ways it is surprising that I got out of my teen years alive. Then they found me, recruited me, trained me. And here I am today. Is that my real name? Of course it is. That said, even if it weren’t it would do me no service to admit that. We might as well agree that my name remains as I said.
I am here to court your daughter.
At the same time, we are here to warn your daughter.
I am a court jester, a magician, a spy, and a bank clerk.
We must jump in here and observe that only about a quarter of what is said is true. We hate what we have become, and hate the idea of perpetuating the myth.
Don’t mind that. I am what I am, and all of that is worth knowing. I am here because I know this, and I know that your daughter does too. She will have said some things about me, I am sure.
All lies, mind you. We keep the truth close to our vest, because We know that most people cannot handle the truth. We look in the mirror and see the same chiseled features that we have since our youth. But behind our eyes, we see trouble brewing. Trouble that will overtake any normal situation and call everything she thinks she know about me into question.
I look in the mirror and love what I see. My chiseled features have earned their wrinkles and worry lines honestly.
Honest? You wouldn’t know honesty if it bit you on the—
The three foot square slab of stainless steel was hot, and stayed hot from opening at dawn until we decided to close sometime after lunch. It was hot and heavy, and was always the perfect temperature for a pancake or fried egg. It was decided not a good place to sit.
Unless you weren’t quite mortal, I suppose.
The kitchen was in a brief lull when she appeared, sitting on the flattop and looking like she belonged there. I just stood there for a moment, staring. I suppose I was waiting for the inevitable scream. It never came.
I gestured with my spatula, but she declined to be turned.
I looked around. My prep cook was in the other room, chasing after something in the walk-in. The wait staff were all out on the floor. In short, I was the only witness to her impossible comfort in the very spot that a full stack of cakes had occupied just moments before her arrival.
This was going to be a very interesting conversation.