“Congratulations, Your Majesty,” said the royal surgeon. In a serious breach of etiquette, he grasped his queen’s hand. “The child is due in the Spring.”
Too overwhelmed to react to the surgeon’s rudeness, Queen Pirouette nearly shouted, “It’s impossible! It’s been over a dozen years since my last pregnancy. I can’t be pregnant. It’s the change-”
Before she could say another word, the doctor interrupted her (another faux pas). “There’s no doubt, madam. Women older than you give birth all the time.”
With the satisfaction that comes from a job well-done, Maxwell gazed at the body of Monica Snapjaw at the bottom of the staircase. Tripping her had been a simple operation. He merely placed his body over her right foot. She lost her bearings and plunged head-long down the wooden steps. Monica had given out a little yelp the very moment her neck snapped. That was one of those tiny gifts that made his work truly enjoyable.
It had been imperative that Maxwell kill Monica while she was in a state of mortal sin. This was his guarantee that she would pitch straight to the fiery pits of Hell Go directly to Hell, he thought to himself. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Max gave himself a cherry laugh.
Tuning into Hell with his internal radio monitor, he could hear Monica arguing with the Admissions Demon that was assigned to her case. “There must be some mistake,” she said. “If you talk to my cat Maxwell, he’ll explain everything.”
Tonight it’s all about white. These blossoms are my entry for Cee’s Flower of the Day challenge. Hang in there! Spring is coming!