The King’s Lookalike

It was upon looking into the mirror the King noticed the most startling thing about him and his economically-deprived guest, Tim O’Pisspotless.

"’Tis most astonishing," exclaimed the queer King, "but you and myself, would not that I knew I were me, I would’st be mistaken on which is whom."

"…the fuck?" asked Tim, then doffed his cap and clutched it to his chest in respect. "What I mean, m’liege, is that I got no idea what the fuck ’tis you’re saying. But I would guess we look just alike, judging by the two fruitcakes staring back at us from the shiny-glass."

"’Tis precisely what I mean!" burst the King, too happy for anybody’s good. He started to undress. "I bid you, remove your encroachments, my good man!"

Tim O’Pisspotless sighed heavily. He had heard such rumors about the King. For God and country, thought Tim, and began to strip. Once undressed, however, he was happily surprised when the King put on his, Tom’s, clothes, and bid Tom to put on his fancy silk danskins.

"Oh, joy!" fluttered the fey King. "I ’twas right! You and I are indistinguishable! Truly—you resemble mine self, and I’m but the spitting image of ’tyourself!"

Tim’s heart grew heavy, for it sounded as if the King’s accent was getting worse, a sure sign his lordship was losing his mind. But he decided to play along with the King’s wishes, as long as it didn’t involve animal costumes and blunt objects meant to penetrate.

"The resemblance is but skin deep, m’liege," said Tim. "I could never be mistaken for your rich, effeminate, royal persons, not with my brutish nature and my career in logjamming."

"Pish!" announced his light-footedness, then smiled brightly as a thought struck him. "I bet’st I could pull the wool over my beard, er, wife’s eyes herself! But a better thought comest to mind. Bid you, wait here and spy discreetly, whilst I fuckest around with the palace guard!"

Tim wasn’t sure how much of that was literal or slang, but he had orders to watch the King do whatever he planned to do with the palace guard, so Tim bowed behind a nearby gold chest (hundreds of them littered the King’s room) as he, the King, scampered off in Tim’s impoverished rags.

"Oh, guard!" cried the fey King, feigning a mock poor person’s walk that was really rather insulting to the destitute, but it was the 16th century, so you had to forgive their politically-incorrect mockery of the poor. "Guard, I say!"

Immediately, the guard spun to see the visage of the poor scamp he had reluctantly escorted into the palace, upon the King’s request. The guard wasn’t quite sure why the King insisted on bringing attractive young boys into the palace at odd hours, and the less he knew about it, frankly, the better he slept when his shift was over. But here, he thought, was his chance to deal out some slightly-higher-up-the-social-ladder justice.

"Be gone, insolent dicksucker!" shouted the guard, inventing the latter word. "Drag your filthy feet across these shining palace floors no more!"

The King was so surprised he had time to say nothing as the guard picked him and tossed him into the angry mob outside. The mob berated and spat upon him for daring to disgrace the King’s castle with his presence, thinking him not the King himself, but shameful little Tom O’Pisspotless! The King was mighty surprised, and spit-covered, as he was carried away by a legion of his most hideous subjects and thrown right into the mud! O, his troubled majesty!

In truth, the palace guard had some clue right away it might be the King, just by the way the little serf walked so girlishly. But one never gets the chance to toss the King out on his ass, so he jumped on it.


For more of this great story, buy Pat Cheeks’ rollicking yarn
The King’s Lookalike

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