Pepe Escobar writes a fairy story: ONCE UPON A TIME, IN A MONARCHY NOT FAR, FAR AWAY…

On his Telegram here: https://t.me/rocknrollgeopolitics/12492
ONCE UPON A TIME, IN A MONARCHY NOT FAR, FAR AWAY…

All was blissfully quiet in the glitzy palace of the Little King and the Fairie Queenie, up until the fateful minute when a shriek pierced the perfumed silence deep into the dead of night.

That was not a cackle; it was a certified shriek of utter terror.

“Ooooooaaaauuuuuaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!”

And the culprit was a photo.

It was all over the place – all around the world.

The Fairie Queenie, reviewing the pics of the recent aquatic follies of the royal couple, suddenly found herself caught, so nonchalant, in her maillot de bain. But what the swimsuit could not hide was the awkward appearance of a zizi.

Yes, it was a tiny little zizi; hormones did produce their effect. But it was still a zizi.

The Little King bolted upright in bed – in full vigor, but obviously stunned.

“What seems to be the problem, cherie?”

“Ils sont mechants!!! Mechants! Mechants! Mechants! Mechants!”

The Fairie Queenie pointed to the incriminating zizi evidence on her smartphone.

“Ah oui, they are horrible, you know what they do to me day in, day out. But I don’t care, because I rule like Jupiter. You, on the other had, are so fragile…”

“Oooooooouuuuummmmmpppphhhhstrummmmppppppffff”

The Little King decided to face this national security threat head on. He abruptly left the royal chamber, went to his study, woke up the staff and ordered them to make urgent calls – on private phone lines, whatsapp, even Telegram.

An extraordinary Council of Ministers via zoom would start in a matter of minutes.

The Fairie Queenie, meanwhile, was petrified – her head buzzing with an Olympiad of impeding horrors, complete with the Pale Horse of death, an orgy of severed heads, plebeians with pitchforks, and a graphic intimate encounter with Madame Guillotine. After all, Place de la Concorde was within walking distance.

The Council of Ministers lasted till the break of dawn.

When The Little King returned to the bedchamber, the wig-less Fairie Queenie was a molten mass under her Vuitton pajamas, mumbling incomprehensively.

“Uuuuuuuuuuuullllllllllllgggggggghhhhhhhhhxxxxxxxx”

“Cherie, a decision has been made. We are going to change the narrative.”

“?????????????????”

“I’m going to arrest a Russian billionaire.”

As if by magic, the Fairie Queenie instantly recovered some shades of pink on her cheeks.

“Cherie! It’s no wonder I loved you so much ever since you were a little boy!”

The Little King felt so good about himself. National security prevailed. No zizi. Now it was all about the Russian.

And what if there still was no Prime Minister? He love ruling as Jupiter.

The Little King and the Fairie Queenie curled up on each other and resumed the Sleep of the Just.

“Our values” once again had been saved.