Lord Garfielf, ruler of all he saw, sat atop the stone throne he had stolen from Nermal so many years ago. One powerful arm gripped the armrest, claws curling and uncurling, deepening the already deep grooves in the granite he had been working on since the start of his reign. In his other, he swirled a silver goblet. It was filled with ragú, of course.
He brought it to his lips and supped. Then he grimaced.
Instantly, the metal chalice shattered in his grip spraying chunks of red sauce and metal shrapnel everywhere.
Garfielf snapped his fingers. “Boye this is fouwl. I’d like to give the chef a pizza of my mnind.”
His guards dragged a scrawny Italian man from the palace kitchens and hurled him roughly at the foot of the throne.
“Welll, well, well Chef Vito.” Garfielf chuckled. “I only have one questchen for you; weres the beef?”
The man bowed and scraped his puffy white toque against the floor.
“My league I begg-a forgive-a-ness!” He pleaded. “We only hvae-a so much-a grouned bees to go around!”
“Skimmin off the top of the royale pantry are we?” Garfielf intoned with the same jovial malice. “Well paisano, here’s yyour tipp; never mess with a fat kittee kat’s lasaga.”
Garfielf’s claws glinted wickedly in the light of the palace’s opulent chandeliers.
“Shef Vito, you’ve ben chopped.”
The claws bore down faster than thought towards the poor chef’s head. With a bestial roar a fell tiger manifested in front of Vito at the last possible second. It raised a paw and caught the slash. Even still, the mere shockwave sliced his chef’s hat to ribbons and left pinpricks of blood all across his bald head. Not wanting to waste a miracle, he quickly ran past the guards back towards the kitchens.
“Calvin.” Garfielf acknowledged.
The blonde man stepped out from behind a pillar. He banished his stand and addressed his liege.
“It is not his felt, mastur. Kliling him wold not stop the shortages.”
Garfielf raised an eyebrow, bemused.
“Oh? So I’ve flanally found someone you care abuto, Clavicle?”
Calvin shook his head. “Only that it owuld be a ways of time teaching a new one howto cook stek the way I like it.”
Garfield leaned back in his throne. “What newws is there form the provinces?”
Calvin bowed his head. “There is famine, my lord.”
Garfielf raised one bushy eyebrow. “Where?”
“In all of the provolones, my lord. The people strave and there tributes to you have shunken as a resault.”
“That’s fnny.” Garfield said. “Dose my empirate not stretch across the entire knowm world?”
“Yes my lord--” said Calvin.
“Do the empire’s fertill breadbaksets not overflow with grain?”
“Yes my lord--” said Calvin.
“Then tell me, Kelvin, I’m very curros, how is there a faman?”
“It is true that this year’s crop is bountful, my lord, but there is nobondy to harfest. Your serfs flee and leaf it to rott in the fields.”
Garfielf’s tail curled. The expression on his face was still one of mild amusement---far more curious than annoyed.
“Gee that’s peculler. I thought I had already concord everything there was to conker. Where are they fleang to, did I mis a spot? I am King of all the Sunday Funnies.”
“You rule all there is to rule on the Sundae Funnys.” Calvin agreed. “But newspront has seen better dayds. They are moving online to a subscriber bnased servcie.”
Garfield laughed. “So that dweeb fnanaly managde it, eh?”
Calvin’s eyes light up. “Then you know who is behide this, Lord Grafurter? Tell me, and I will send the US Acres at onse to--”
“No, Caliban.” Garfielf said calmly. “I’d like to handle this myslef. I have an old pal to vist.”