Daddy King, Please Send Him Home

The groan that escaped my lips was a sound of pure, primal despair. It echoed in the quiet, lemon-scented hallway of the department, a funeral dirge for my recently deceased lazy life. I stood frozen, my eyes locked on the gleaming, mahogany-and-gold monstrosity that had replaced my humble little nameplate. It wasn’t just a sign; it was a declaration of war. A declaration that I had already lost.

Okina Sukebe & Sir Justus.

My name, my beautifully misspelled, accursed name, was now legally and bureaucratically shackled to that walking tin can of righteousness. The ampersand between our names might as well have been a pair of handcuffs.

For a moment, I considered my options. I could quit. But that would mean giving up the lifetime supply of free bath services and the salary I had already mostly spent. I could try to burn the sign off the door, but that felt like too much effort and would probably lead to more paperwork. I could accept my fate, wither away into a husk of a man forced to endure morning calisthenics and holy wafers for the rest of his days.

Or I could try one last, desperate, and almost certainly doomed appeal to the highest authority in the land. The final boss of this bureaucratic nightmare. The King.

A new fire, born from the ashes of my despair, ignited in my soul. This wasn't just about naps anymore. This was a matter of principle. The principle of being left the hell alone.

I didn’t even go into the office. I spun on my heel and stormed back towards the main palace, my strides filled with the righteous fury of a man whose comfortable routine had been violated. Edgar, just arriving for the day, saw the look on my face and wisely flattened himself against a wall to avoid being caught in the blast radius.

I burst into the King’s private study without knocking, ready to unleash a torrent of pleas, begging, and possibly some light groveling. I found King Edward Lysvalde III on his hands and knees in the middle of the floor, surrounded by pieces of wood, a small bag of screws, and a single, pictographic sheet of instructions. He was sweating, his crown was on backwards, and he was trying to fit a round peg into a square hole with a look of intense, kingly concentration.

Princess Marie sat on a nearby sofa, observing the scene with the serene, detached amusement of a scientist watching a lab rat fail to solve a maze. She was sipping tea. Of course she was.

“It doesn’t make any sense!” the King grumbled, holding the instructions upside down. “This drawing clearly shows the… leg-thing… connecting to the… majestic seat-plank! But it won’t fit! This self-assembly throne from the Northern Duchies is a cursed object!”

This was the man I was pinning my last hopes on. We were so screwed.

“Daddy King!” I wailed, deciding to go all-in on the theatrical anguish. I slid to my knees, skidding across the polished floor and coming to a stop at the edge of his self-assembly disaster zone. “Your Majesty! We have a crisis! A parasite has attached itself to the kingdom’s greatest hero!”

The King looked up from his carpentry project, startled. “A parasite? Good heavens! Marie, call the Royal Physician! Sukebe has worms!”

“Not a real parasite!” I clarified, my voice cracking with desperation. “A metaphorical one! A parasite of piety! Sir Justus! You have to send him home! He’s… he’s organizing my office! He replaced my snacks! He tried to get me to do a push-up this morning! A push-up, Your Majesty! The horror!”

To illustrate my suffering, I pulled one of the holy wafers from my pocket and presented it to him. “Look at this! This is what he calls sustenance! It tastes like a nun’s guilty conscience! I’m a growing hero! I need grease! I need MSG! My life of dignified sloth is over!”

Marie set her teacup down with a delicate clink. “Oh, but physical fitness and a balanced diet are so important for a hero, don’t you think, Father?” she chimed in, her voice dripping with poison-laced honey. “We wouldn’t want our champion to be winded after vanquishing a particularly stubborn bath sponge.”

“I was not winded!” I shot back, before turning my pleading gaze back to the King. “She’s in on it! She’s enjoying my suffering! Please, Daddy King, you’re my only hope! He said he was a ‘special ambassador.’ You’re the King! Un-specialize him! Revoke his diplomatic immunity! I’ll help you with your throne!”

The King finally set down the wooden peg he’d been trying to hammer into the wrong hole. He looked at me, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of what I thought was sympathy. It wasn't. It was profound, kingly cluelessness.

“My dear boy,” he said, placing a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “I think you are failing to grasp the magnificent opportunity before you.”

“The opportunity to have my soul scoured clean by secondhand righteousness?” I asked.

“The opportunity for synergy!” he boomed, his eyes lighting up. “Sir Justus is a Paladin from the Holy Kingdom of Nazareth! Their most respected order! His presence here, serving by your side, is a political coup of immense proportions! The Pontiff is pleased! Our trade negotiations have never been smoother! They’re even giving us a discount on enchanted frankincense!”

“I don’t care about frankincense!” I cried. “I care about my nap schedule!”

“And what’s more,” the King continued, completely ignoring me, “he is a model of heroic virtue! His dedication, his discipline… frankly, Sukebe, you could learn a thing or two from him. Think of him as a mentor! A spiritual guide on your heroic journey!”

This was it. My final hope, dying in a fire of diplomatic nonsense and self-improvement suggestions. The King didn't just misunderstand my problem; he thought my problem was the solution.

“So you’re not going to help me,” I whispered, the fight draining out of me.

“There is nothing to help you with!” the King declared cheerfully. “I cannot send him home. His posting is a sacred one, outside my jurisdiction. He is your partner now! So be a good host, show him the ropes, and for heaven’s sake, try to keep up during the morning drills. It’s for your own good.” He then turned back to his impossible furniture project. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe this diagram is telling me to use this… tiny wrench… to summon a demon.”

My appeal was over. I had lost. I slowly rose to my feet, a hollowed-out shell of a man. I gave Princess Marie a look of pure betrayal. She simply smiled and gave me a delicate little wave.

I raised my left hand and snapped. The monstrous piece of furniture the king was building from knock-off IKEA furniture was instantly finished in a poof. A look of defeat on my face, I gave the king a small nod before I turned to leave.

I trudged back to the Department, the walk of a man condemned. Each step was heavy with the weight of my new, terrible reality. The Corridor of Disappointed Ancestors seemed to glare at me with even more scorn than usual. I reached my office, my personal hell, and stared at the gleaming mahogany plaque.

Okina Sukebe & Sir Justus.

It mocked me. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I pushed the door open.

The room was blindingly clean. Sir Justus was standing by my desk, a small, satisfied smile on his face. He had just finished polishing the surface to a mirror shine. In his other hand, he held a freshly-inked piece of parchment.

“Ah, welcome back, Sir Hero!” he said, his voice bright and cheerful. “You’ve returned just in time. I have taken the liberty of drafting a preliminary schedule for our afternoon patrols and our mandatory evening scripture study.”

I stared at him. At the schedule. At my own horrified reflection in the surface of my stupidly clean desk. The last glimmer of hope in my soul flickered, sputtered, and died. This was it. This was my life now. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.