“That flying small being of his, half object, half creature. Calls it a bird. But it’s not. Not really. Wings aren’t real.”
“Captain Who?” the Captain insists.
“It has no names, has identity issues. Speaks in mixed tongues.”
“Says ‘non-non-non’ often?”
“Yeah, like that, speaks just like that.”
“He can fly?”
“New wings on top of his old dysfunctional ones. He refused to have the old wings removed and the experiment worked. They say the feathers did it. Got a GPS too.”
“Labaguette may be alive but we’re trapped by this muck,” the King complains.
“Makes us softer, meatier, juicier, smellier and more palatable” one prisoner insists.
“I,” the King retorts, hesitant, “I am with crown.”
“Ha! Ha! HA!” echoes around him.
“The better the enjoyment.”
“This place is about Rum,” the Captain continues, “nothing to do with cannibals. The policemen aren’t cannibals. What—“
“—Numerous experiments gone wrong, that’s what,” the prisoner says, “creatures born out of unwilling boxes forced to comply to orders from above as well as the disorderly, disobeying policemen willing to try anything to be noticed.”
“No policemen would ever try to—“
“—the tampered with, the damaged, Captain. Through birth or through circumstances. They never recover. Usually, it remains unseen until it bursts out of their being all of a sudden, for any reason. They turn into rogues. Look around you Captain, what do you see?”
“They’ll listen to me. I can lead all to calm. I can rule,” the King states.
“Long time without practice,” the Captain answers.
To be continued…