In The Year Of The Half-Arsed Wombat
“The plague does not cause ugliness,” declared the Queen. “That’s just something peasants are born with. The plague causes coughing, sneezing, wheezing, breathing difficulties, fever, and malingering.” The way she said that word, it was quite clear that the nobility should never have to suffer from malingering peasants.
“Er, and death, dear,” said the King.
“Oh. Yes. I suppose it does,” said the Queen, safe in the knowledge that plague was something that only happened to ugly peasants, and not to actual people. “But I don’t believe any of the symptoms need to be attacked by endless hordes of hoarded toilet paper. And it is against the laws of Gods and mortals to pay the peasants with actual money. Surely?” She glanced at her husband for confirmation, and he nodded rather more enthusiastically than was strictly necessary.
“So, little herald,” said the Queen, “how can they afford bread, and water, and toilet paper, and ... all that other stuff?” She ploughed onward, giving Harold no time to answer her question. “No. No, certainly not. Utter humbuggery, that. Our ugly little peasants cannot possibly be responsible.”
Harold knew the truth, for he had seen the people fighting in the Lesser Market over the last rolls of toilet paper. And the same scene had played out before his eyes at the Greater Market. The only differences between Lesser and Greater was that the customers of the Greater Market had been knights and lesser nobles, and their servants and guardsmen. That meant their fights over toilet paper had been far deadlier than those of the common folk.
Mostly because the commoners were focussed on survival, so if your opponent was lying on the ground, curled up to shield his testicles from another kicking, now was the time to get your hands on the three-ply prize, and run like all the hells.
Now was not the time to chivalrously stab your opponent with a broadsword. In the back. Fourteen times. Besides, if you were like most commoners, the number of broadswords you owned was probably less than one.
Harold knew the truth. He’d seen it. But he also knew it was not his place to contradict the Queen. Not unless he wanted his place to be the dungeon.