“What do you mean we’ve no more massage oil?” I cried, thumping my fist on the breakfast table. “The orgy is tonight!”

“I’m sorry Sire,” said Sir Sleeves, his head hung low in shame. “The chef thought it was cooking oil. It’s all been used up.”

I blinked at this, my eyes swivelling slowly to the fork of roast chicken halfway to my mouth. Then I gave a shrug and ate it: plenty of it would have gotten into my body either way, I supposed.

“What about the cooking oil then?” I asked, munching my chicken. “Can we not use that?”

“The cooking oil was used by mistake as well, Sire. To lubricate the cannons.”

I sighed and rubbed my nose.

“Well do we have any cannon oil, then?”

Sir Sleeves shifted his weight from one foot to another, his hands clasped in front of him.

“The cannon oil was accidentally used for—”

“Oh, lightning strike you!” I cried, grabbing a bundle of grapes to throw in his direction. “How am I supposed to throw my bi-annual orgy without any oil?”

“I could—” began Sir Sleeves, before thinking better of it.

“What?”

“I could— no, I don’t want to say it. You’ll get angry with me.”

I shook my head and exhaled.

“Look, I apologise for losing my temper. I realise now that flying into violent rages at the drop of a hat is not conducive to productive brainstorming. It’s just that I really want this orgy to go well. You know the last one got a bit… weird.”

Indeed it had: all the Lords and Ladies had arrived as normal, but at the peak of the festivities a gang of bandits from the docks burst in to rob the castle – thinking the dimmed candles were a sign it was empty. My knights rushed in to save us, of course, but then I ended up having to conduct a lengthy and complicated maneuver of allocating bandits to jail cells while glistening nude and engorged. The cells were already full of goblins we’d caught trying to raid the larder the week before, so it was a giant mess and there was a lot of swearing and headbutting – and after three hours of that I defy anyone to get back into the orgy spirit.

“Come now, Sir Sleeves,” I said, gently. “Share with me thine ideas.”

Sir Sleeves fiddled with his gauntlets and shrugged.

“Maybe we could just… get some water from the moat. And use that for oil.”

Several minutes later, once I’d finished chasing Sir Sleeves around the castle and exterior courtyards and gardens with my fork, I sat on the steps outside my Great Hall to think. I stroked my chin as my servants tottered to and fro, carrying rugs and soft chairs and erotic ornaments inside.

“Lubrication,” I muttered, pawing at my golden stubble. “How does one find that much lubrication at short notice?”

Moat water was outrageous, obviously, but perhaps my idiot knight was onto something: I would need to find a substitute. Surely there was something in Pugglemunt that was sufficiently oily.

In a flash, I was up on my feet. A walk through the city would help me think.

“Captain Plug,” I called across the courtyard.

“Yes, Sire,” replied the captain, staggering along beneath the weight of a chest filled with masquerade masks and thigh-high boots.

“Accompany me, would you? I wish to stroll the city.”

Captain Plug gave the chest to a helper and hurried to my side, bowing before me and twirling her spear around respectfully.

“Where are we going, my liege?”

“I know not,” I admitted, as we crossed ‘neath the inner portcullis and set out into the city. “Just tell me if you see anything that looks wet.”

We wound down the hill in ponderous silence, Captain Plug dutifully tossing away any peasants that tried to touch me.

“Moss is quite damp, isn’t it, Captain Plug?” I said at length, as we came to a stop beside a large, overgrown wall.

“Sire?”

“Moss. What forces are at work inside it, I wonder, to make it so? I mean, if one were to wring it out, what would one acquire?”

Captain Plug scratched her nose.

“Well, slime, I should imagine Sire.”

I clicked my tongue. ‘Here, just grab a handful of slime and get stuck in’ was hardly a phrase one wanted to hear when stepping into a debauched carnival of flesh. No, my captain was right.

We sauntered on, my eyes flicking to everything that glistened: a bottle of milk on a doorstep, the condensation on a tavern window, the residue at the bottom of a street chef’s pan. I had been staring pensively at the sheen of sweat on a blacksmith’s forehead for several minutes when Captain Plug spoke up.

“Might I ask what exactly we are doing here, Sire?”

“What?” I blinked, snapping out of my trance. “We’re trying to find lubricant, Captain. We’ve none left for the orgy.”

“Oh,” said Captain Plug, brightly. “Well you could always try botany.”

“How would that help us? We’d need even more lubricant for that. And anyway, you never know who’s going to be into it.”

“What?” said Captain Plug. “Botany.”

Then, after a lengthy silence she added: 

“Plants!”

“Oh,” I said, quietly. “Right. No, well, yes. Of course.”

I cleared my throat.

“To the bottanery!”

*****

The botanist – a very old man with a bald head and a long, greenish-looking beard – peered over his spectacles at me; I peered right back over them at him.

“For the fourth time, yes, you did hear me correctly. Now what do you have for me, plant peddler?”

We were in a rickety greenhouse on the outskirts of the city. There were leaves and flowers and butterflies everywhere and I wanted very badly to sneeze (I was cursed by a bog witch as a boy and have suffered from incredible hayfever ever since).

“There is perhaps one brew I could provide you with,” said the botanist. “Though it comes with great peril.”

“Stuff your peril, I have an orgy to attend,” I said. “What is it?”

The botanist frowned at me a moment, then vanished beneath his counter. He was down there for ages; I grew restless and a charming red plant shaped like an open mouth caught my eye. I shoved my hand inside it, intending to make Captain Plug laugh, but the plant’s jaws immediately clamped down on my wrist and I screamed and was forced to draw my sword and behead it.

A moment later, the elderly botanist struggled back above the countertop. He was holding a vial filled with a glowing amber goo.

“This, your Grace, is a most powerf— where did my Klinghornian Chomper go?”

“What?” I asked, staring straight into his eyes so he wouldn’t notice me frantically kicking the severed head of the plant away beneath the counter. “I know not of what you speak, petal plucker.”

“I swear it was there only a moment ago. A big red flower, shaped like a mouth.”

“I have never seen such a flower,” I remarked, while desperately stamping on it and kicking it under the table.

The botanist shrugged.

“I must have moved it and forgotten.”

“Absolutely,” I nodded.

The old man frowned at me a second time, then shook his head and raised the vial once again.

“This… is a most powerful potion,” he said, sloshing it around. “Extracted from the tears of the sentient cacti of Fäirnell Pass. It possesses as many as a dozen magical properties, and many we are still yet to discover. It is a substance most rare, and most incredibly dangerous to acquire. It is—”

“Can I use it as lube?” I asked.

The old man sighed deeply, rubbing his brow with a muddy-fingered hand.

“Yes, I suppose it could also be used as a lubricant.”

“Tremendous!” I cried, beaming. “Captain Plug, bring me my coinpurse.”

“I must warn you,” said the botanist, looking at me over those half-moon glasses again. “This is no ordinary potion. One drop of it can cause grave madness.”

“Oh that’s quite alright,” I said. “We’re not going to use one drop. We’re going to use loads of it.”

*****

All was ready. The rugs were laid out, pillows galore, the chaise longues were situated at convenient intervals, the portraits of my ancestors had been covered up, and basins of my new-improved lubricant were stationed throughout. Petals had been scattered tastefully, and snacking tables were placed around the perimeter, along with hot, bubbly baths. Along the eastern wall, an arsenal of intriguingly sensual utensils was on display, but I won’t describe those for you because you’d go all bashful to even imagine it.

And there was I, standing in the center of it all in my costume: a great, gleaming peacock, nude from the waist down. The theme of this season’s orgy was ‘birds of paradise’, you see – and look, before you say anything, I know peacocks aren’t technically a bird of paradise, but they are definitely at the top of the pretty bird pyramid if you consider the shine-to-size ratio, which I obviously had, because it was my party and I set the theme.

My guests were late; I had been standing like this, fully-costumed, one leg raised on a chair, a goblet of wine in one hand and a gilded spatula in the other, for twenty five minutes. I just knew that the second I abandoned my regal ‘welcome’ pose and went to refill my goblet, the Great Hall’s doors would spring open and everybody would flock in and see me not posed like a god of old, but huddled over the banquet table eating cocktail sausages. I could not have it – I held my pose. These events are all about elegance.

“Sir Sleeves,” I called out of the corner of my mouth, straining to stay still. “Get over here, I require thee.”

From somewhere behind me I heard a scurry of footsteps, and my knight entered my field of vision in his pigeon costume.

“Sire?”

“I thirst, Sir Sleeves. Fill up my goblet, would you?”

“At once, your Grace.”

I felt my goblet lifted from my hand – Gods it was nice to be free of the weight for a moment – and twenty seconds later, the scurry of footsteps returned.

“Here you go Sire. Filled to the brim.”

“Good man,” I said. “Tip it into my mouth, would you? I want to get a little flush going before everybody arrives.”

Dutifully, my knight lifted the vessel to my lips. I drank, savouring the taste: a strong vintage, this one. Very strong, actually, I thought, as I gulped again. In fact, this might genuinely be the strongest—

“Pu-TAAAH!” I cried, spitting what remained of my mouthful into Sir Sleeves’ open beak. “Sleeves, you drooping schnitzel, where did you get this wine?”

Sir Sleeves, wiping his mouth clean with his wing, looked at me.

“Why, just from the basin Sire. Why? Would you prefer to save the good stuff for later?”

Oh, dash it all, I couldn’t hold it any longer. I swung my left leg down from the chair and stumbled across the hall (oh, it had gone right to sleep), aghast.

“You imbecile! You hog! You damned, blasted sack of guts with eyelashes!”

Sir Sleeves, uncertain of the exact nature of his mistake but well aware he had cocked up something fierce, cooed and flustered around me as I stumbled about wretching and gagging and grabbing at my throat. It was too late: already I could feel the glowing amber goo doing something to my innards. What was it doing to my beautiful innards?! Why did I suddenly feel the urge to… to peck?

In the throes of my hot-bellied agony, I saw a crumb on the rug – it stood out to me as does gold to a– to a– to one of those people who go in rivers looking for gold – oh whatever I wanted to PECK IT.

Madness took me; I crouched low, lower than I ever thought I could go, and pecked at the crumb. While I was down there I saw more crumbs – crumbs galore! I could not stop myself: I scurried across the floor, hoovering the minutiae, clucking and cackling with glee. Soon enough I notice Sir Sleeves at my side, bent doubly just the same, eyes swivelling.

“Get your own crumbs, you rotter,” I cried, before accidentally and to my great bewilderment letting out a high-pitched screech.

I went to clip him with my wing, but it got tangled in his own wing, and we fell upon one another in a great, feathery pile, squawking and pecking and booting one another. Amidst all of this, somewhere outside, a distant fanfare came. I heard it, but it didn’t register as anything that mattered. All I wanted to do was give this idiot pigeon the pecking of his life and then go back to my delicious crumbs.

Far off, there came the sound of doors opening – swiftly followed by the ringing of merry voices, which soon descended into silence, before erupting a moment later into a chorus of gasps and shrieks. Furious at the interruption – O why would nobody let me get on with my crumbs? – I stood up from atop the pigeon, spread wide my wings, lifted my gigantic gleaming green-blue tail, and let out a long, furious screech at the intruders.

*****

Several hours later, when the lube had worn off, I awoke shackled to a gurney in the medical wing. Sir Sleeves, beside me and equally strapped in, was already awake, watching me quietly.

“Oh,” I yawned. “Hello Sir Sleeves. I had the strangest dream. I dreamt I was chasing a gaggle of scantily-clad aristocrats around a garden for hours. It was a lot of fun, but then I was eventually caught in a big net someone fetched from the fishery and– oh shit.”

Sir Sleeves, regarding me with a combination of concern and apprehension, nodded (obviously – every other part of him was strapped firmly down).

“I dreamt something similar,” he said. “I think we might have… I think the orgy might not have gone ahead, Sire.”

“Yes,” I sighed. “I think that too. Oh, hell. The gentry are going to gossipping about this one for years.”

“You know, Sire, I—”

“Don’t say it.”

Sir Sleeves looked at me – observed the fact that I was shackled to the bed – and considered his options.

“Sir Sleeves, I’m warning you.”

“All I’m saying, Sire, is that if we’d used the moat water—”

“RIGHT!”

And then I writhed so hard against my straps that my bed tipped over and I crashed into the stone floor. I lay there a while, spitting out blue and green feathers with pretty little eyeball patterns on them.

“Yes,” I sighed. “We should have used the bloody moat water.”