In the lower classes of the palace (i.e. everyone else but the Emperor), I was the most powerful. Everyone knew I had the ear of Molock. And they were all jealous. I had a satisfying life.

For about three years.

It started at the bimonthly ‘Evil Emperor dinner party.’ He invited Evil Emperor’s he’d known ‘back in the day’ and they would exchange plans on world domination and fight over who got to call themselves, ‘the Black.’ You know like, ‘Molock the Black.’ It was quite a sought-after title, and they still hadn’t agreed on which one of them could use it. I stood behind Molock’s chair, just as all the other bodyguards stood behind their respective master’s chair, and we all carefully avoided looking one another in the eye. Your own boss’s idiosyncrasies you can ignore when you are on your own, but it can be quite embarrassing when there are others around.

They were having tea and scones after playing ‘place the pin on the tax list,’ a game which involved blindfolding each person and sticking a pin on the tax roll to see who was next up for execution. They placed bets on whether it would be a man or woman. Bizmark The Slightly Black was complaining that the cream on his scone tasted sour and Cantos The Greyish was saying how he never won the bet and that it was all so unfair.

Suddenly, Molock started to cry. Just like that. For no reason. Nobody knew where to look, least of all me. One or two of the less diplomatic asked him what his problem was. Everyone else simply concentrated on their scones.