The King is dead

When Gilbert died covered in his own cream; Ita was anointed by the city guardians.

The red waterproof carpet was rolled out. The staff spoke nervously about changes. They thought Christmas would be cancelled.

The guardians charged Frank with organising a banquet at the top of the building. They had cleaned out Gilbert’s office and binned his girlie pictures.

The staff below moaned at the persistence of the top down approach and how the working middle floors would be squeezed again in a battle of incompetence between the oligarchy and the proletariat.

The guardians stared aghast over their meal as the new Queen outlined her vision dismissing all the went before. She was first to clean her plate and Frank swooned. She stood up; thanked them for hospitality and asked them to leave her office. They shuffled out in shock as she stared out the window.

She had dreams to dream without other voices colonising her head.

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