Pretty Pretty Princess Read online

  The princess didn’t move or react at all. Her expression was still, as if her face were molded from clay. Her hands fell away from Francis’s and she hugged herself. Francis thought she was staring at him, but it was soon clear she was staring through him, eyes unfocused.

  Francis could sense he was losing her. He had visited three kingdoms before this one and had become very familiar with the feeling.

  Everyone is so set in their ways, they cannot imagine any alternative.

  “Have you never wondered why your parents thought it necessary to condemn you to years of imprisonment? To spend the prime of your youth alone, surrounded by walls and monsters? And for what?”

  “Because it is tradition. Because it is what the gods demand.” One of the girls said this, but Francis didn’t see which one. The others nodded in agreement.

  “The gods? The same gods who we have been told love us, watch over us, keep us from harm? Tell me, Princess. If the gods smile down on us so, why would they demand your misery and torture? What could they possibly gain from this?”

  “Prince . . . ” The princess started to speak, but then let her mouth hang open after the one word rolled past her lips like a ball of mucus.

  “You are a beautiful young woman. A princess. With royal blood flowing through your veins. You should be treated with dignity. You should be cherished and celebrated, not sentenced to captivity like some wild animal waiting to be slaughtered for meat.”

  “I think you should leave before our future king arrives,” one girl said, and just as the words slithered into Francis’s ear like a bunch of poisonous snakes, two girls slipped out of the door, surely to call for help. To fetch the brave, monstrous knight who had saved the princess, and therefore, owns her.

  “My name is Prince Francis, formerly from the kingdom Granada. I too was banished from my home unfairly. For not fitting the mold that our sacred traditions have sculpted for us. My only wish now is to spread information. Princes for the Ethical Treatment of Princesses. P.E.T.P!”

  “Pet pee?” the princess muttered.

  “It’s a working title,” Francis said. “But it’s the message that is important. It is my duty—I have made it my duty—to stop this wretched practice of locking princesses away. You and you alone should be allowed to choose your own husband. Not the king and queen and not the gods. Only your heart, Princess.”

  “I . . . ” the princess started, her eyes still unfocused. Then she suddenly stood straighter and stared Francis right in the face. “I am lucky. The gods have blessed me with a strong, brave husband. A knight so ferocious and mighty that he slayed the ogre horde and rescued me. And it is my duty to love and serve him the best I can and give him as many sons as my body can provide.” She hesitated, her tightened muscles going slack. “Forever.”

  Heavy footsteps outside. Deep, growling voices. Metal clanging and scraping against more metal.

  The remaining girls in the room now had their attention on the door, and just as Francis turned to try and persuade the princess with what little time he had left, she reached out and grabbed his hands again. But strong this time, pinching his fingers like crab claws.

  “Help me,” she whispered harshly. “Please!”

  “That is why I am here, Princess. Only to—”

  The door burst open and three mountains of muscle and iron stormed in, the largest leading the pack.

  “It’s too late,” the princess said as she backed away from Francis. “My duty. This is my duty. I’m lucky. So lucky.”

  “Princess . . . wait—”

  Francis reached out for her, but his hand only made it a few inches before a fist the size of a boulder seized his arm and squeezed until he was sure his bones had turned to butter. The hand was covered in coarse hair, the knuckles thick and scaled in callused flesh.

  “What ye think yer doin’ here, lil’ lord?” the brute said through his bush of a beard that was soaked with mead and littered with bits of food. His teeth looked like river rocks jammed into his gums, jagged and brown and cracked in places. His pupils dilated as he glared into Francis’s face, all black, the whites thick with a net of red veins. His voice blasted from his mouth like a dragon’s flame and was just as hot.

  “I’m here to defend the rights of the princess. To show her that she is more than just a prize for an impish thug like you and all the others that came before you!” Francis took a backwards step toward the princess and away from her monstrous husband-to-be. “Right, Princess?”

  But the princess was no longer behind him. Francis panicked as he searched the dark room with frantic eyes, but it wasn’t until he turned to face the knight again that he found her. Clutching the behemoth’s arm, staring at Francis as if he were a demon trying to carry her off to hell.

  “He is trying to trick me,” the princess said, refusing to make eye contact with Francis. She grabbed the knight’s arm with both hands, her eyes on the floor. “Trying to make me go with him. Don’t let him take me, my knight. Please.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Francis said, but then shut up quickly as the knight and the two ironclad piles of muscle-and-pissed-off started toward him.

  “Girls,” the knight said, his nose wrinkling up like a lion’s. “Tell the king we won’t be needin’ the roast boar tonight. Always wondered what prince tasted like, yeah boys?”

  The other warriors cackled and licked their lips and the front of their teeth.

  “I’ve been told I leave a bad taste in one’s mouth,” Francis said.

  “Ya learn to stomach all sorts of things fightin’ in the Dark Wilderness, lil’ lord. And me and my boys here have eaten far worse critters than you. Now be a good lad and lift your chin up just so, yeah?”

  Francis searched for an escape. He found only thin slats in the wall, but they were too high up for him to try, and even if he could reach them, he didn’t think he could fit through.

  Just as Francis was preparing himself to feel the bite of steel, a loud ruckus erupted from just outside the door. Shouts and curses erupted into the air, followed by banging and clanging as if someone had dropped a tray of silver.

  Then he heard the oinking.

  “Get your grubby hands off me, you goblin fucker!”

  The door was thrown open again, and Gavin charged through the room.

  “What’s this?” the knight said. “Pig-stuffed prince. Sounds nice, yeah, boys? Grab the lil’ fucker. Let’s see if we can’t fit him up the prince’s ass, yeah?”

  “You all right, Fran?” Gavin said, tusks bared, his spiraled tail straight and hard like a dagger.

  Francis now had his back against the wall as the knights continued to close in on him. He slowly shook his head. “A little help would be welcome.”

  “Grab that fuckin’ pig, will ya?” the knight said.

  The princess and the other girls screamed, all standing on the small bed clutching one another, every pair of eyes pinned to Gavin as he circled in place and snorted at the knights.

  “Come here, you porky lil’ fucker,” one knight said, and reached down to grab Gavin.

  Gavin launched himself forward, bit down on the knight’s hand. With one quick jerk of his head, two of the thick fingers tore free, spouting blood over Gavin’s pink skin and splashing over the ground.

  The knight howled and staggered backward, colliding with the other knight. They both crashed to the floor, their armor pinging and clanging as they scrambled and wrestled with each other. Blood squirt from the finger stumps in small fountains, coating both knights in red.

  “Come here, you!” the husband-to-be roared and stormed toward Gavin. He swiped at the air with both hands, but came up empty as the pig sprinted through his legs.

  “There’s too many assholes like you in the realm,” Gavin said as he lifted his hind legs in the air and kicked out with his hoofs. They slammed against the knight’s testicles, dropping him to his knees instantly. A sound like a dying mouse squeaked from his thickly-veined throat. “That should keep you from
breedin’, you fat sack of pussy lips!”

  “Gavin!” Francis called, and the pig sprinted toward him, his hoofs clicking against the stone floor.

  The women shrieked and squealed.

  Prince Francis mounted his pig, and just before he rode him out the door, he glanced at the princess who was looking right at him.

  “Think about what I said here today,” Francis said, and then gripped the fat on Gavin’s neck as they made their escape.

  2

  I mean . . . I’m a fuckin’ pig, and I’ve jammed my hog log down more pork holes than I can count.”

  “You can count?”

  “Not the point. Point is, why go through all this trouble for princesses when you don’t even know what you’re missin’? Is that what all this is about? You hopin’ to pop your prince cherry by impressin’ some royal broad with your good manners and heart of fuckin’ gold?”

  Francis and Gavin marched through the outskirts of the Dark Wilderness, the nefarious forest that filled the spaces between the kingdoms. Since he was a boy, he had been told tales of meat-eating ghosts, demon oaks, fire worms, and all sorts of were-creatures. The list went on and on. Each creature more terrifying and nightmare-inducing than the last, all desperate to rip to shreds any human foolish enough to wander into their territory. So far, from Francis’s brief experience, the stories were worse than the reality. He had expected to be killed and eaten within minutes of stepping foot outside of Granada’s walls. He had either been lucky so far or misinformed.

  But still, the stories and legends kept him from wandering into the deepest parts of the Wilderness. He found he could sort of walk around the edge and still find his way to most kingdoms. The richest and most powerful kingdoms lay within the heart of the Wilderness, and Francis had decided at the start to try and persuade the . . . easily accessible kingdoms first.

  “Just leave me alone, Gavin. Please.”

  Gavin oinked and shook his head. “If it’s pussy you want, you could have put that gold of yours to better use ages ago.”

  “Will you please—!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Never heard of no prince that ain’t at least dipped his scepter. What’s the point of being a prince if you can’t spray your seed across the kingdom and into the faces of wenches?”

  Francis didn’t respond, picking up his pace so he could get ahead of the pig. Gavin still muttered insults and complaints behind Francis’s back, but the soft music building in his ears blocked it out.

  “Oh, come on!” Gavin said. “Don’t start all that. Your damn singin’ could attract wereflies or devil faeries or goddamn fire worms! We talked about this.”

  The music rose in volume and Francis wrapped his hand around a thin tree trunk, spinning himself around it. A smile even managed to blossom on his face.

  No matter how bad he felt, no matter what foul mood he fell into, there was nothing like a song to perk him right up. Another tradition he noticed was fading as the years flickered by.

  He cleared his throat, spun and leapt in the air.

  “Fuck me,” Gavin oinked.

  WHY CAN’T THEY SEE?

  Pretty, pretty princess locked away

  A tower or a dungeon is where you’ll stay

  I’m sorry, pretty princess, you’re on your own

  For years and years and years alone.

  I’ve traveled the lands till my feet were swollen and blistered

  No matter where, they all torture their daughters and sisters.

  Though I tell them repeatedly, they’ll never listen to me

  And I ask myself the question:

  Why can’t they see?

  Since I was a boy, there’s been tales of princesses in towers

  Surrounded by dragons and witches with devilish powers.

  When a queen spits out a babe, the doctor spreads its legs

  It’s too hideous to mention

  Why can’t they see?

  Pretty, pretty princess locked away

  A tower or a dungeon is where you’ll stay

  I’m sorry, pretty princess, you’re on your own

  For years and years and years alone.

  If you are born into royalty

  And you have to sit to pee

  I’m afraid that your vile destiny

  Is a long, long life of solitary.

  And not every single prince is safe

  From prejudice and ignorance and spiteful hate

  If you would rather read than decapitate

  Then a life of royal banishment is your fate.

  Pretty, pretty princess locked away

  A tower or a dungeon is where you’ll stay

  I’m sorry, pretty princess, you’re on your own

  For years and years and years alone.

  So that is my mission, to spread some information

  Though I know there’s risk of disembowelment and castration

  A princess is a jewel, and this world is fucking cruel

  Do I have to slice off their eyelids?

  Why can’t they see?

  Princes for the Ethical Treatment of Princesses!

  Freedom and diamonds and servants and soft silken dresses!

  And I hope and pray and plea, that there’s one out there for me

  I just don’t understand it

  Whyyyy can’t theyyyy . . . Seeeeeeeeee!

  Pretty, pretty princess locked away

  A tower or a dungeon is where you’ll stay

  Don’t worry, pretty princess, I’m on my waaaaaay

  Finally your imprisonment will end todaaaaaaay.

  ***

  “Feel better?”

  The sound of Gavin’s voice snapped Francis out of his song trance. His cheeks ached from smiling so hard, and his throat was slightly raw from the volume and passion with which he was singing. Sprinkles of euphoria swirled through his chest and stomach like a pixie dust cyclone.

  “Much better. Thank you.”

  “Good. Now what in the royal fuck are we gonna do about them?” Gavin was hiding behind Francis’s leg, snorting lightly as he glared at the group of massive knights in front of them.

  Francis hadn’t even noticed them. Was too enthralled and hypnotized by the song to be conscious of the here and now until Gavin made him aware.

  They stood outside of what appeared to be a tavern. As Francis had sung, they traveled a great distance, which tended to happen during a song. Francis had found himself lost on more than one occasion after coming out of a song trance. It wasn’t until just then that he noticed how out of breath Gavin appeared to be.

  Where are we?

  “You lost, little lord?” one knight said through a slit plate of rusted metal covering his mouth.

  The other knights sort of growled and stared down at him, their eyes gleaming like open wounds from the darkness of their helmets.

  “Lost?” Francis said, hugging himself and forcing a weak laugh. “Not lost at all, brave and noble knights. Just thirsty. Looks to me you fine warriors could use a drink as well. Allow me to buy you each a tankard of ale? Some wine perhaps?”

  The knights all stood straighter, making them tower over Francis and Gavin all the more. Their bodies blocked out most of the sun, drowning Francis in the blackness of their shadows which seemed a deeper black than the rest somehow.

  “Tell you what, little lord,” the same knight said. He lifted the metal plate to reveal his face which looked like it had been chewed on by a troll, lit on fire, and then stomped on to extinguish it. Red scar tissue spread across the flesh like a map, the teeth like plates of fungus. “You’ll buy us those tankards of ale. And you’ll hand over that fat hog behind you there, yeah? Then we don’t rip you in half and take turns fucking your innards.”

  “But . . . I—”

  “Any of you overgrown gnomes try and touch me, I’ll bite your balls off, chew ’em to paste, swallow them, shit them out, then roll around in it. You think a pig in shit is happy, just wait till you see a pig in his own shit made outta your
balls, you cunt suckin’ fucks!”

  There was silence as the knights glared down at Gavin. It was as if his harsh words had cast a spell on them.

  Francis was preparing himself to die just then. Hoped they made quick work of it. Hoped their swords were freshly sharpened and that their aim was steady.

  “What do you say, you metal-plated pussies? You want a slice of ham so bad you’d risk your balls?” Gavin stepped out in front of Francis, head lowered, tusks outstretched, tail straightened.

  “Gavin,” Francis whispered, but it was too late. He clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and turned his head so he wouldn’t have to watch the blade slice the wind as it sped toward his neck.

  But instead of swords being unsheathed or stomping footsteps, it was laughter that exploded into the air. Francis slowly peeled his eyes open and found the men kneeling down around Gavin, each patting the pig on his pink head and back like a horde of little girls wooing over a puppy.

  “All right, all right. Hands off the hide, already!”

  The speaking knight stood first, slapped a hand as heavy as a mountain onto Francis’s shoulder. A cackle cranked out of his throat like a toad possessed by the devil, followed by a gust of breath that could have boiled water. “Fine hog you’ve got there, little lord. Why don’t you come inside and buy us that ale you spoke of, yeah?”

  Gavin looked even more miserable being petted and tickled by the knights than he did when they spoke of feasting on his meat. An agitated oink spat from his snout, splashing a stream of gray snot into the mud.

  “Sounds delightful.”

  3

  The tavern was called The Moist Maiden, but from the look and smell of it, the only way a maiden would become moist is if she vomited over herself, sick from the look and smell of the place.

  The air was so thick with body odor, festering wounds, and the miasma of shit that Francis felt like he was chewing on it as he strolled across the pub, following the band of knights toward a table at the rear. The place was little more than a shack with piss on tap, the wood of the walls and floor stained with blood from past scuffles. The head of an orc was mounted over the bar itself, the man serving up the drinks underneath it only slightly less grotesque.