It was with weary anger that Francezka closed her laptop. Why, of why did things of this particular and humiliating nature always happen to her? "I am worthless." She thought aloud. "I am unable even to win my crown through an internet auction site! Specifically eBay! If only I could remember exactly how I came to lose my crown, and my kingdom! The Kingdom of West Belgium!"
No, Francezka wouldn't be doing any remembering any time soon... Every time she tried to have the least little flashback, even to whether she had used underarm deodorant that morning, she was prevented. A searing headache, obviously the end result of the work of some fiendish and easily bribed scientist, who was helping whomever (she always prided herself on using the word "whomever"), yes, whomever wanted to prevent her from taking her rightful place as Crown Princess of West Belgium! Possibly that tart who'd been taking up so many valuable chapters. If only the people knew! If only her darling Eleni hadn't left her, to pursue a Life of Evil(tm) , she would be able to remember. She would be able to reclaim her throne.
Her main obstacle, other than her inability to even recall if she'd remembered to insert the tampon when she'd gone to relieve herself, was Javier. Javier was a loyal and glistening man of the male persuasion, who happened to be her jailor. He imprisoned her with his concern, his thoughtfulness, and his ability to give oral sex for thirteen straight hours without coming up for air.
Yes... it would be impossible to go away and leave Javier....
Sometimes, Francezka worried that she was under a delusion, that, perhaps, she was not the crown princess of West Belgium at all, but merely a lunatic suffering some lunacy which made her erroneously believe that she was something she was not!
A... session... with Javier was often the only way she could extract herself from these dark fancies.
But, how was she going to handle this? Her PayPal was slow, and her internet connection was abominable. Really, it was no one's fault but AOL that she had, yet again, lost her crown!!!
She sighed, a sigh of surpassing self-pity. "Oh, why am I on dial-up???" She moaned breathily. "Why can I not have a cable modem!!!"
"My dear Francezka..." the gentle voice that drifted, much like snow, or dandruff, to her ears belonged to her darling Javier.
"Why do you torment yourself? Why do you sit here, day after day and humiliate yourself? For what, darling? If you need humiliation so, I still have that mask on the top shelf in your boudoir. You have been a bad girl, no? You need to be punished..."
"Oh, Javier, nothing will help me now... Well, perhaps the mask wouldn't be entirely remiss."
"I'll fetch it at once, Dearest!"
Francezka blinked. She peered at the monitor before her, then at Javier, who was standing, chest heaving and eyes glittering with love and absolute arousal.
"Fetch what, Javier? Wait. Did that little cyber-geek just outbid me on my crown??? Dammit all to Hell!"
And so, Javier knew, the cycle would begin again. It was the third time in half an hour that he had offered to get the mask. Perhaps the trick was to get a set of restraints... and a gag.
"My poor amnesiac Princess..." he soothed. "We need to get you some gingko biloba..."
Javier owed his rugged, carved form to his previous employment as a blacksmith. That is to say, he used to be a black man with the name of Smith. He wrote poetry under the pen name of "Alan Smithee," and his hobbies included sweating profusely in the glowing heat of the forge, whispering heavy-breathed nothings in a baritone voice, and parasailing. He was practiced in the warrior art of KOMBATO, being the first westerner to learn the dangerous skill and use it in the Kumite.
Francezka! The name blew through his ears like a suicidal gunman's final bullet, sounding eerily like "Fresca," his favorite beverage. They had first met on a reality show, "Who Wants to Steal the Crown of West Belgium?" Francezka's whiny performance threatened to get her catapulted off the island, but Javier stood up and cast his deciding vote for Gary Coleman. As the screaming midget was flung into the sky, robbed of his prize and any remaining dignity, the two made out like a couple of randy seventh-graders reading the encyclopedia entry for "sex". Javier brought Francezka to his abode when it became apparent she was unable to remember auditioning for the series, or what her own name was. As time went on, she attributed this memory flaw to the efforts of a wizard, or an unscrupulous mad scientist. Only Javier, and seventeen million viewers, knew the truth- that she had been pelted with an anvil to the face after choosing to go with Door #3 in the lightning round.
"Javier," she said, wresting him from his narrated flashback, "I know who took the crown. I know that screen name, for I had it tattooed upon my thigh! Because, you know, the wizard and everything." Javier appeared puzzled. "Coronado!" she exclaimed. "The guy who won the reality show!"
It was true. Coronado, as victor, had once been within moments of claiming the West Belgian crown, only to be told by the producers that the crown was not actually available for awarding. The producers, in their shame, fired themselves. But this was no consolation to Coronado, although the two tickets to Miami and the "Who Wants to Steal the Crown of West Belgium?" home game certainly was.
Francezka, unable to remember the game's outcome, had vowed revenge. A vow she repeated for at least three years before getting the idea to cover herself in memory-aiding tattoos, after watching a film whose title eluded her. For this reason, she was also covered in grocery lists, and sported a heart tattoo with Larry King's name on it, a memento of their seven marriages.
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