Day One-Seventy-Three: Sploosh

OW. MY BUTT. I may have deserved it but MY BUTT.

After a night of reflection and bad sleep, I decided to stage a little rebellion at work today. I have earned SO MUCH RESPECT over the last few months, but nobody gives me nuthin'. You know? I'm tired of being taken for GRANTED, and I want somebody to KNOW it.

So that chat Robert had with me yesterday? About getting everything right for the nobles? NOPE. I was determined to serve 'em just as I'd served the peasants. Hell, if anything I served the peasants BETTER than usual today, which confused a bunch of 'em 'cause they actually GOT what they ordered, which, in many cases, wasn't what they wanted. We're all used to lying about what we want to better ensure that we GET what we want.

Understand? Yeah, makes no sense. That's Castle Drippy for you.

Anyway. I decided to make a stand this afternoon. I wasn't about to let some stupid noble push ME around. So, after preparing a batch of fresh rat soup - yep, I know how to boil rats now, and it's kinda FUN given the grief they shower on me, though Robert kills 'em before he hands 'em over - I took it to the first customer to walk in, and, without listening to his order, I splashed it ALL OVER HIS HOOD. RIGHT IN HIS FACE. Pretended I tripped, I did.

… then I noticed the faint line of a faded, drawn butt crack on his forehead, just underneath his hood.

Yeeeeeeah. It was the king.

I stood there in horrified silence for a moment as that fact sunk in, watching him curse and toss his cloak off, and before I knew it his royal guards - who had hidden themselves off to the side - threw me to the ground, their pikes scraping my temples. An attendant helped the king clean himself, though he was still pretty soggy by the time he brought his wrath to bear on me.

"LET US SEE HIS FACE!" the king bellowed, and the royal guards forced me to tip my head back. "WE WOULD KNOW WHO IS GOING TO DIE!"

I eeped. I honestly thought I was about to be marched over the Neck. The king has ordered people dead over less than a bowl of soup to the face.

When he saw who I was, however, the king stopped short. "Oh. It's you. What the hell are you doing in our kitchens?"

He knows who I am? I thought, some of the tension draining away. "I… um, your majesty, I was… ordered…"

"Ordered to drench us with SOUP?! You have RUINED our NEW GOATEE! Perhaps we should order the COOK EXECUTED!" He glared over at the kitchens, and I just bet Robert ducked out of sight to avoid trouble.

The king fumed for a while, continuing to mop soup off his face and clothes, and my fate dangled perilously by the thinnest of threads. Once he'd cooled down, however, he seemed to see reason.

"Very well. Given your… UNIQUE position within this castle, services rendered in the past, and your daughter's betrothal to our son, we will forgive this indiscretion. THIS TIME. Foul up again, however, and we will see your skin flayed from your bones and HUNG FROM A FLAGPOLE, ALONGSIDE OUR DIVINE FACE, AS A SIGN NEVER TO HARM THE KING. YOUR REMAINS WILL FLAP GRACEFULLY IN THE BREEZE FOR THE REST OF ETERNITY. DO YOU UNDERSTAND US, DRAGOMIR THE GUARD?!"

Never have I nodded so rapidly. My neck's sore now, so I mighta given myself whiplash.

"But you still deserve a paddling," the king said, rubbing his hands together. "BEAT HIS ASS!"

And they did. Both of the guards used the flats of their pikes to slap my rear end silly, one of them even going so far as to kick me and knock my face into the floorboards. I think I may have chipped a tooth. Gods do royal guards hit hard! They look like pansies with those stupid flappy arm coverings! Stupid Omega Corps!

"Ahahahaha, that was precious. I'm finished. Off we go!" the king ordered, and the guards left me to grovel on the ground. Then Jeffrey stormed off, yelling at his aide to change the castle's name to 'HotHotHeat'. (Drippy came after that. Dunno what else that whacky king's been doin' today.)

I'm pretty certain Robert would have fired me on the spot had he any other helpers. And I've no doubt that I am, for certain, out of a cooking job by the end of the week. That's fine, I'd rather not be smacked about again for screwing up.

This is twice the king's yelled at me now. He's praised me an equal number of times, true, but I bet scorn outweighs praise ten to one. ESPECIALLY when it includes a butt beating. That's not good for poor 'ol Dragomir.

Oh, and you're probably wondering if I wet myself while he was screaming at me, diary. Answer is: YOU BET. I need new breeches, these ones smell perpetually of pee. Libby hates getting into bed with me now.

…

…

But he remembered my name…!

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Cook