A plague had long devastated the country.  No pestilence had ever been so fatal, (except for pretty much all them that had come before), or so hideous, (although actually leprosy, bubonic plagues, and most hemorrhagic fevers were probably more hideous), or so subject to a 24/7 media addicted to ratings based on saying the same thing over and over and over again, (yeah, I got nothing).  Coughing and fever were its avatars, along with a sudden and inexplicable need to hoard toilet paper.  The whole process of the disease was the matter of days, or maybe weeks; hell, maybe months.  The country was on it knees, its economy choked as though it too were the victim of the plague.  Entire countries were shut down, to say nothing of sports leagues.

But  the Prince Goodello was happy, dauntless, sagacious, and the kind of asshole

who was convinced nothing would hurt him while not understanding anything about how a pandemic works.  Though his leagues cities were half depopulated, (except for Detroit; things in Detroit were pretty much par for the course), he summoned to his presence all of his barons, hale and light-hearted and not a moral or conscience among them.  With these miscreants Prince Goodello retired to one of his castellated abbeys, or at least an overdecorated casino rented out for the purpose, there to engage in the selection of some 200 new recruits for the insatiable maw that was his league.

The casino was done up true to the creation of Prince Goodello’s tastes, which is to say none.  His suite was so constructed so as to be constituted of seven apartments, each with windows of stained glass of a coloUr designed to be in accordance with the prevailing hue of the room.  The first chamber, for instance, was hung with blue tapestries, and blue were it’s windows, it’s lamps, it’s disco balls and stripper lights.  Blue as well were its occupants, be they citizens of Dallas, New York, Los Angeles, or Buffalo, although the latter were in danger of being cast out if they did not cease their habit of pile-driving each other through the tables scattered throughout the room.

The second apartment was purple, as were it’s denizens from Baltimore and Minnesota; the third hung with vestments of green, and green were it’s occupants, be they from New York, (fine, New Jersey), Philadelphia, and for some reason Jacksonville, although there was more than a little debate about where those colors belonged.  Seattle had tried to join, but their green caused headaches and vomiting, and thus they were sent back to change into their blues and go to the first room.

The fourth was furnished in red, and its occupants, be they from Atlanta, Kansas City, San Francisco, and even Tampa Bay, were likewise attired.

And so it went, each room a different color, or shade of color, until the seventh and final room.  That room was hung in black, for reasons no one could understand.  It’s windows were blacked out as well, with the only light coming from several 70’s velvet posters that had been laid in the desert sunlight for several days.

It was therefore actually pretty well-lit, as were it’s denizens, residents of the cities such as Oakland, Los Angeles, Oakland again, and then Las Vegas.  No one else would enter the room, (Jacksonville had tried, but were told to pick a goddamn color scheme and stick to it, then firmly showed the door), perhaps because the centerpiece of the room, a supposed tribute to their once proud leader, was ghastly in the extreme,

and produced so wild a reaction upon the countenances of those who entered that there were few bold enough to remain within its precincts for more than a few seconds, or at most 2-3 beers.

In spite of the conditions prevailing in the outside world it was a gay, (no, not that way; the Duke Ireland had designed a series of intrusive and insulting questions to weed just that sort of thing out, as well as any progenies of “ho’s” as he called them), and magnificent revel.  There was dancing, and feasting, drinking and trading.  There were reaches, hoo boy were there reaches, particularly from the Chicago contingent.  

There were moves that were beautiful, moves that were wanton, moves that were bizarre.  The revelers moved among the apartments, increasingly drunk, increasingly loud, increasingly distracted.  Their dreams of future success for their new additions were increasingly fevered.

And, anon, there struck a clock announcing the end of the 7th round of selections.  All was still and silent save the voice of the clock.  The dreams of the revelers are frozen, as they think back on their new additions and realize that, once again, Baron William of O’Brien has probably fucked everything up.  These thoughts faded with the passage of time, and the revelers continued to eat and drink, and dance, and drink, and drink, and take liberties with women that they would later strain to excuse,  

and drink.

All except the Earl of Kansas City.  He just ate ribs.

As the last echo of the clock faded many of the revelers became aware of the presence of a masked figure which had not previously been noticed in the crowds before.  The rumor of this presence swept through the crowd, eliciting a buzz, a murmur, and, finally, expressions of terror, horror, and dismay.  This particular reveler had gone so far as to don the guise of a former member of Prince Goodello’s kingdom, one lately cast out to wander the wastelands between, with no true home.

Eventually the eyes of Prince Goodello fell upon this hideous image, and he was seen to be convulsed, first with terror and distaste, then with the rage of someone denied the first piece of pizza at an office lunch.  “Who dares”-he demanded of his lackeys and courtiers-“who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery?  Seize him and unmask him-that we may know whom we have to hang, or at least suspend for an arbitrary period of time, to be determined by me based on vague and mysterious factors that I will not share with others!”  At first, after the Prince cried out, there was a shifting movement among the revelers as though to comply with his commands, but the certain nameless awe that the masked reveler inspired prevented any from laying a hand on him so that, unimpressed, the masked reveler passed within a yard of the Prince, seeming to sneer even more as he did so.

Prince Goodello, maddened with rage, rushed after the figure, which by now had strode though all the apartments and reached the black room.  He bore aloft a drawn dagger and “raced” to within some 40 yards of the figure when the latter, having reached the icon in the center of the darkened room, turned suddenly and confronted Prince Goodello.  There was a sharp cry, a hacking cough, and the dagger fell upon the carpet upon which, instantly thereafter, fell prostrate in death Prince Goodello.

Enraged, the followers of Prince Goodello threw themselves upon the masked horror, only to be thrown off with the force of a volcano.  The tall figure stood erect, (heh, “erect”), among the fallen revelers, revealing the unutterable horror as the grave-cerements and corpse-like mask fell off, to reveal the true, and infinitely worse, nature of the reveler.

OH YEAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

And now the revelers had to acknowledge that justice had found them even here, among Prince Goodello’s finest castellated abbey/rented casino dance-hall.  Justice had come like a thief in the night, and one by one the revelers were rendered limb from limb and separated from their flesh, and Justice held illimitable dominion over all.

He also cleaned out the fish tacos.  Didn’t leave a crumb.

*With the deepest apologies to Edgar Allan Poe, a master of the horror genre and a person who didn’t deserve rabies, and definitely doesn’t deserve this.