Part Two — The Royal Servicer Returns
In the heat of that July night, when the air pressed against the queen’s castle like a living thing, the lights inside flickered and dimmed. The townspeople drifted toward the open lower‑floor windows, drawn by the strange hush settling over the place. She stood alone in the glow, one hand resting on the old car she kept polished like a relic, its chrome catching the moonlight like a signal.
Then the royal servicer appeared.
He stepped out of the darkness with all the frontier regalia that passes for “royal” in these parts: sharply creased jeans, pointy cowboy boots polished to a ceremonial shine, a fresh cowboy hat angled with deliberate swagger, and a pearl‑snap shirt with roses embroidered across the back pockets like a homemade coat of arms. His stride was his sword; his outfit was his crown.
He carried gifts — wrapped in twine, smelling faintly of dust, diesel, and the long road he traveled to reach her. The townspeople watched as he approached, each step slow, deliberate, echoing through the warm night.
And he wore a mask.
Not a solemn one — the odd, theatrical kind you’d expect from a Steve Martin fever‑dream, something between comedy and omen, unsettling in all the right ways.
The royal servicer had returned.
And the prairie held its breath.