The queen had, for all intents and purposes shut her womb against the entrance of the king’s wayward seed. If this was what he produced there would be no more groaning or coming and going in the bed chamber. To tell the truth, the king was rather inept in the art of lovemaking and the queen would never suffer through another of these episodes willingly. She knew he would be content with the plastic doll she ordered, which lo and behold actually looked a lot like her.
The king approached the balcony, holding the infant before him. The crowd stepped back in horror. Young children screamed and hid their faces in their mom’s aprons. Prince Charming would become the thing that misbehaved children would be scared of for centuries to come. A groan spread through the crowd. Fingers were pointed and eventually the king scooped errant brain cells together and stared at his son’s bowed legs. He was born with six toes on each of his malformed feet.
Hmm, he has extra bits, mused the king.
“What are you staring at?” he shouted belligerently.
“Nothing, Sire,” a gravelly voice answered.
“And who might you be?” demanded the king.
“I am Mr. Smith, Black Smith,” said the farrier as he ushered the crowd back to the streets. Everyone knew that the king could be volatile. It happened like clockwork every time his brain cells took a stroll down Lost Avenue. But, he was their king for better or worse; he who must be obeyed if you did not want to walk the plank into the mugger infested moat.