American West Palace
Ms. Glorious escorted me to the narrow tunnel with a massive granite door. After three short knocks, we entered the so-called West Valley – the modern T-shaped central hall with an ugly row of chairs on both sides of the mainline. A team of highly qualified professionals, looking too non-binary for my liking, approached us with forced smiles and greetings, guiding us to the ‘learning chairs’.
We sat quietly, with our throats strapped to the back, enjoying the view of the roofless room. To overcome the fear of being rewired (or replicated somehow), I held my hand on the knee of Ms. Glorious during the whole introductory process.
“It is perfectly placed,” she murmured.
I lifted it promptly and explained, “It got there by accident.”
“What high precision!”
Indeed, I was the man of accuracy and integrity. I flushed and directed my hand exactly to the north, aiming to connect to her perfectly designed G-system.
After a couple of minutes, we received the instructions. With a list of 111 rules in hand and the promise to repeat everything twice, we left to the opening at the end of the hall. The gates unlocked; we stepped inside the beautiful magical land, it was like something from Aladdin’s tales.
Perhaps an outsider, who had never been in such a mysterious place, could experience a feeling of mental excitement (or even oppression) – mostly from the sparks of power and sexual desire vibrating in every particle of the air, or from happy female faces, carelessly strolling on the road – but I was familiar with perplexing and enigmatic environments through my job. I pulled up my uncomfortable shorts and joked: “O Hamilton, the King of the West, this palace is your true greatness! O semi-divine beings of unknown stars, how grateful I am that you came to me…”
“Lovely words, Doctor! Such a spiritual place… I’m getting goosebumps each time I’m entering it.” To say Ms. Glorious was in ecstasy from my sharp joke is to say nothing at all.
On the path to the King’s Chamber, which we went back and forth twice (following the rules established by local law), Ms. Glorious shared the latest news with me. I pretended to listen while my attention captured the bank made of crystal, enormous music hall, gambling club, dating house, fight theater, moon-praying park, the tavern of joy and suffering, and half-naked women bathing in the colorful fountain filled with champagne. An uninhabited island was being built nearby a commercial space line to Mars and Pluto. The Great Hamilton Pyramid, fresh and shining, occupied the eastern corridor of the palace. Each stone told the story of immense privilege, security, and perfection.
Everything was available in this place – sex, money, cars, drugs, luxury. Debauchery and greed were not an infection – this space was saturated with it. Or maybe it became a national need of the American West? I couldn’t believe that the fulfillment of 111 rules and the power of the King could create order in this Kingdom. It should be something else… something I couldn’t grasp yet.
At some point, I returned my attention to Ms. Glorious, who was sharing the story about King Hamilton. As it turned out, the King kept more than 600 deer in her West Valleys. Every day, she’d bathe in a jade pool full of blood from these deer; then she’d powder her body with jasmine-scented anti-aging creams and continued her daily routines by playing sexual games with her devoted maidens or visitors (at random). Ms. Glorious thought it was an amusing, generous, and healthy activity. As soon as she paused, I said: “It is such a boost for every visitor of Hamilton’s Kingdom!”
“Yes, our West Palace is the proof that miracles do happen.” The woman smiled, luring me into the shadows. As you understand, the miracle happened much sooner than I expected.
Ms. Glorious peeled the layers of her clothing off. It wasn’t much: only her Lotus triangle bra and floral mini strings in a beautiful combination of mesh and lace. I knew what to do: I was ready. I talked to her skin, to the thirst beneath it, to her hungry blood. After a short conversation, our blood raced together, and as you have probably guessed, we repeated it twice.
As we lay side by side, the all-powerful host of the Ark talked tenderly in whispers: “Hysteria is consuming our Palace. Please, save it, Doctor Harmless! All hope is on you! There has been an epidemic of suicides in the Kingdom in the last month, a wave of dark anger engulfing our throne. We understand that we are sending you into the mouth of the dragon. Warrior Farm is a fiend, where destruction is considered a good taste and where insubordination and murder are the signs of civilization. Every minute we live under the pressure of a fateful and terrible day called ‘Awakening’.”
I mumbled (tortured by sleepless nights, longing for my Sobekneferu, drowning with wine, sex, and new crazy experiences): “I wouldn’t mind staying here… Let’s say taking a nap for half a century. Who knows, it might all work out by itself.”
Without moving or smiling, Ms. Glorious looked at me, then, knocking her tiny fists on the golden sand of the floor, exclaimed: “We can’t allow any plebeians to decide how to rule our Land! Screw Quarter’s progressive ideas and the treasures of this country are already in the trash, Mister Bullet! Don’t you see it?” She paused. “You are our avalanche, a brave snowball falling from the mountains, a cyclopean beast of science, the keeper of medical voodoo secrets, the fire in our patriotic hearts… We believe you can heal them from their madness!”
Her patriotism – kind and intense, the force of all good in the world – guided me directly to her smooth, silky skin. Ms. Glorious met my nervous strokes with sighs of satisfaction. I could feel the fierce shaking of her body under my rhythmical thrusts.
After that, we repeated everything twice, again.