Let Them Eat Cake

“Little pup, little pup, what could you want?” Lady asks the finely-trimmed Pomeranian trembling in her arm-wreath. The pup seizes control of her nerve-stricken limbs, given permission, and catapults her over the balcony's edge at once. The extended hanging prompts a life-saving correction from Lady: “Your Majesty! Your Majesty! What could you want!?”

“Let them eat cake!” Her Majesty blurts out in the foulest tongue her breed allows. Declines must be earned before they are even suggested – Lady hastily feeds the frazzled pup sweet strawberry fondue, manufacturing an extra supply with scarce material while said pup chews, lest the assembly line of treats be unavailable for the following slobber. Even chocolate cake for dessert fails to outwit this demagogue. By virtue of the vein in Lady's finger routed directly to her heart and the threat of Pomeranian lacerations tampering with their sacred wreath, Lady rescinds the invitations of her circle of friends and lovers.

Days of overabundance through the Providence of the wreath produces a bulge in the Pomeranian's stomach. The weight becomes unbearable on Lady's axons, but Her Majesty insists, so the royal servant follows suit. Presently their cerebrum is one and the same, but in that rare case, where Lady feels dread while the pup is wild upon spotting a freely-flying blackbird daring to mount the royal balcony, portraying it as some rundown pit stop, the disgrace! That flea! Goosebumps shred Lady's skin as Her Majesty ascends to her throne. The Pomeranian commands an assaulting leap, and even with invitation, no practical wits exist to resist. The Queen is dead.