Vicious King

Rain continues to pelt the windshield and with only seconds left, I step out and head toward the door. The red light housed behind metal bars, much like the windows to every cell, above the door pulsed and a loud buzzer sounded as the doors were opened from within.

My father steps out in a white button up and a pair of blue jeans with a few-days-old salt and pepper stubble on his chin. The top of his button up is left unbuttoned and his sleeves are halfway rolled up to his elbows, but he smiles like it’s just another day. We step close together and he pulls me into a strong hug before pushing me out to look me over with a hard slap to my back.

“You look good, son!”

“You too. I guess prison food wasn’t too hard on you,” I add, gesturing to his biceps that are much larger than I remember. He’s even more tan than usual—spent a lot of time outside, no doubt. Oddly enough, the jail had a “world-renowned” courtyard, complete with a basketball court, outside gym, and mini-obstacle course to keep prisoners fit and active during their stay. That’s what happens when royals find themselves behind bars—a mini-resort style lock-away, and my father could be their poster child.

He chuckles and takes a step back to point over his shoulder. “There’s not a lot to do in there, boy. I had to fill the time with something—besides, exercise is a good way to keep from going insane.”

“Did you have any trouble out of your roomies?” I ask as we move toward the car together. I doubt anyone tried messing with my father. Aside from the fact that he was their disgraced king, he’s kind of menacing. If anything could detour the other prisoners from attacking him—aside from his somewhat violent temper, hence the nickname “Mads”, I mean, they don’t give you that nickname for being level headed—it would be the black and white sleeve wrapping his right arm from knuckles to shoulder. The old man had more ink than that, but that one is the most memorable; complete with a bleeding skull and hangman’s noose. My favorite are the “cuts” racing up his biceps, where the artist had made it look like the flesh was peeled back to reveal tissue and bone beneath.

“Nah. Most of them have their own shit to work out. I also kept a pretty low profile. Not that that didn’t keep a few from fawning over me. You’d think they would at least give me a little action in there—try to attack me or something. But, I am their damn king, no matter how far I have fallen. Even in jail, many of them remain loyal, which I guess wasn’t awful. Still, it would have been pretty cool to add some real cuts to this piece,” he says, touching his bicep with the “cuts”.

We load into the car—my dad didn’t even have any belongings since he had been taken in so swiftly at the time. Driving away from the jail, I catch him flipping the place the bird with his inked hand.

“So, I won’t need to bring you back again, huh?” I ask and chuckle as I pull out onto the main street and head toward the palace. “By the way, our little problem in the Canary Islands is taken care of,” I say.

He’s quiet for several minutes. The rain had let up, but the skies over Copenhagen were still overcast like the dark grey of freshly poured cement. I maneuvered the car down narrow city streets, passing the colorful buildings with rows of identical windows and racks loaded with bicycles. In spite of the gloomy weather, Copenhagen is as beautiful as ever.

My father stared out the window. Finally breaking the silence, he clears his throat and I glance at him in my peripherals. He’s not normally this quiet—it’s a bit unnerving.

“Alright, tell me straight, son. How pissed is your mother?”

I snort but noticing how serious he is, I also clear my throat to stifle my laugh. When father was thrown in jail, mother spiralled out into one of the worst moods I’ve ever witnessed. She has taken a lot of shit over the years, I mean, being a royal—queen no less—with five children and a husband who can’t keep his nose clean, hasn’t always been easy.

“That bad, huh?” father asked with a huff.

I nod. “Remember how angry she was when Caleb and Fara crashed into the study, bloody and soaked in mud, during her video conference with the big wigs of FEND Corp?”

Father let out a loud sigh and chuckled. “Yeah. Those two punks had decided to play cowboys and wranglers with the 600lb hog, Black Jack. Damn, your mother was redder than ol’ Black Jack’s blood when the cook had him readied for the annual Royal Feast that year!”