Part One:
Egged On
Humpty Dumpty was the name of the giant egg. And even as the egg continued to symbolize a certain greatness of the kingdom, by now, it was regarded less than the usual regal one expects of an official icon.
For hard times had befallen, and while nearly all recognized this, the lavish aspects of the king's court operated as if things were well. Humpty was no less the wear, and in demonstrating the philosophy that life in the kingdom had not changed for the worse, the egg continually stepped himself up a notch in his recreational activities.
The king was warily aware, though he showed little of his worry. Nevertheless, beyond him, as well as his constituents, advisors and spin doctors, word was out among the pubs, markets, on the corners and within the grooves of the cobblestone streets that Humpty was tipped over. Humpty had deep and bothersome afflictions.
Certainly, as Humpty was a blatant drunk, habitual drug user, and a contemptuously bulbous pursuer of feminine accompaniment, the egg's actions were less so debilitating to itself as they were the crown. In the darkest days, Humpty's disregard finally wore enough on the king to create in his mind a surly, shabby and unshaven character, fat and rotund, egg-shaped as it were, and most of all, a royal embarrassment.
As for the king, his wish was Humpty would simply disappear. Or fall in some manner, and crack its shell. But neither happened. The egg was too large to vanish, and the shell which inhabited the egg was fortified by weaves of high-tensile steel. It was a modern nursery rhyme in war-like strength.
Of course the king, needing to save face, sought to have reports on Humpty delivered daily in only the most confident and secretive of terms.
Far from the castle, deep in the confines of any dark restaurant, bar, or market stall, the king waited alone at a back table, dressed in peasant's garb. This usually was on Mondays and Thursdays, mid-afternoon, when no one in the castle would suspect the king's absence as nothing much happened during the mid-afternoon for the king.
Posers were everywhere, as were shysters and rip-off artists. The king, in disguise, was presumably one of these.
The man in the dark trench coat arrived with clockwork accuracy just as the king dove into his second scotch. The trench coat man sat heavily, ordered his own drink, and lit a cigarette as the king demurely poured through the photos spilled from a manila folder taken from the man's trench coat.
The king on almost every occasion such as this, shook his head at what he saw; the debauchery, the caught stills of the land's treasure and unofficial mascot, engaged in unspeakable acts with drink, drugs, prostitutes.
The king, on almost every occasion, would then look up, his question always the same: "Can these be verified?"
The trench coat man had only one answer: "Yes. Just as can the last."
No particular kindness existed between the man in the trench coat and the king. For one, the king was weakening quickly because of the statewide rebellion which had now lasted close to a generation, his generation, in fact. Secondly, in this very private case between himself and the man in the trench coat, the king showed weakness. He grew helpless. His eyes were wide, and his lips white with dryness. His hands shook, and his drinking had long since increased from two to four, and now four to six, all done within the half-hour meeting between he and the man in the trench coat.
So it wasn't particularly surprising that the man in the trench coat, not really attached to the idea of watching other men suffering, suggested an answer.
Being a humanist of sorts, the king steeled himself for what he knew the man in the trench coat would once again say.
Once again, it was: "You should have it eliminated. As I see it, your majesty, it's not impossible that this could happen. After all, look at the egg's quality of life. What doesn't roll the egg out of bed could kill it, and between the two lies slim borders. A diseased whore, alcohol poisoning, a bad batch of heroine." The trench coat hunched his shoulders up then down. "It isn't as if its shell, nor its position in history, makes it impervious."
"You're saying," the king began frankly, "Have Humpty killed."
The man in the trench coat said nothing. He instead lit another cigarette, which left the king to the loud thunder of his own thoughts. Finally, he shook his head.
"I could never do that on my throne."
The man in the trench coat inhaled, but still, afterward, there was nothing.
"A national treasure, you're saying. Just like that? Off Humpty like some dog in the street? Just like that? " The king closed his eyes at the thought. "But it's so revered."
"Revered?" The man laughed. "I beg the majesty's pardon, but really, you are quite clueless. That God damned egg is more hated than revered. No one these days is on its side. The people would like to see it dead rather than alive to, begging your majesty's pardon, drink and fuck at will."
The king took a moment to think this through. Then he said anecdotally, "Dead, huh?" He looked up at the shadowy face. "What makes you so sure it's everyone."
"An unscientific poll, your majesty. Least of all on my part. Word on the street and in bars, clubs, grocery stores, when coming out of the royal bank in tears at no longer having any money in an account. Yes, sire, the egg is part of the problem. The egg is the problem. The egg's screwing the kingdom, sire and the subjects aren't happy. They're not happy with you, with the royal court, with parliament, and especially the egg. The egg goes about like nothing is wrong, when all is wrong. In fact, most believe the egg's actions would be just as callous and scandalous even in good times, sire. Plainly put, no one likes the egg, or the few who do aren't saying as much."
"So," the king said. "My citizenry support all this."
"To the detriment of their support of you, sire, which is eroding quickly at that."
"Yes," the kind said. "Eroding. Which is why I have to crack down."
The trench coat shrugged again.
"The egg will be your undoing, sire. So maybe it's time you undo the egg."
But the king shook his head. This could not be handled at the moment. He ordered another drink, and while waiting for its arrival, folded his hands over the manila envelope.
"I think we've covered enough ground for now. Thank you for your time and commitment."
At that, the king took out his own envelope and slid it over to the man in the trench coat.
"For the poetry you've provided me tonight, Carlisle," the king said.
The trench coat man, Carlisle, didn't feel the need to count the money. This was the king, after all, and his highness had enough trouble as is to add one more by ripping off his deepest and most trusted confidant.
Even with a body like that, the egg was still a ladies' man, or rather, ladies' egg.
Its dance was the sort of obtusely-moving jig one could expect from a large and rotund shapeless body. A body, to that extent, of an egg.
But oh, what an egg Humpty was. Easily, its shell cleared two meters, two-and-a-half with this evening's platform soles on. And its suits were tailor-made; they had to be as nothing off the rack fit a chest, back and particularly a midsection such as Humpty's midsection. Even the egg's tie was custom threaded, while Humpty's hats were the sort that took a marvel of engineering of brim circumference carefully considerate of the smooth, yet undeniable broadness of the sloped scalp. In more cases than not, the accessory atop Humpty's head took on a smokestack's width more than a stovepipe height.
Humpty was well dressed, and for the most part, well-heeled. One saw the egg in only the finest restaurants where a voracious appetite netted the egg no less than three main courses, with double that for appetizers. The egg dressed well, dined well, humped somewhat well, and drank a well's worth as well.
Of course, to an increasing number of citizens, the sight of Humpty through a restaurant window, car window, or oval-like silhouetted backside through the upstairs window of a house of ill repute, was infinitely appalling. Of all the trouble the kingdom experienced, here was this big egg used for…what? A purpose of mascot, of meaning and existence? Why keep it around was the growing thought? The egg does nothing for morale as it flies in the face of the belt tightening everyone else goes through.
But others, albeit more from a conservative stance, believed Humpty Dumpty to be in irreplaceable figurehead in what the kingdom should represent. That not just a man, but an egg, could find success and adoration in itself, a belief to which Humpty Dumpty was the sole example, and might eventually help lift a country thus far so down on its knees.
The kingdom would survive, or so the egg purveyed. In the throes of large boulevards which branched off into small stone-paved streets on which were the cafes and small eateries that Humpty occupied in messiah-like presence between an obscenely baritone groan of a laugh or in Spring, a cannon-like bark of a sneeze and sniffle after the fired shot once the relentless pollen count brought on the egg's hay fever.
Sure, Humpty initially was something to look up to. The egg once was the epitome of the land's bright and fun-loving nature. Its people contained the spirit of smiles, liberal hello and goodbyes, gracious offerings of wealth and prosperity, grand times where only on the rarest of occasions, a downtrodden expression was seen, and in response to that, a person might say, "Come on, friend, don't be a downer. Turn that frown upside down."
These were, needless to say, the people of Humpty. They were true followers, soul mates, decided disciples, purpose-driven pedagogy.
But there also was the booze, the hookers, the heroine, cocaine and overeating. That was all also the stuff of Humpty. The excess. The excessive. All of which quickly rolled the egg downhill, cracking it in at least a symbolic sense.
Humpty's escapades left the king near the point of seizure. He slept less, if at all, and aged more in the last few months than the last few years. Humpty was hanging his highness out to dry. Why the hell did he put so much public trust in an egg? Why couldn't Humpty just be a good egg?
The king stopped himself. His hand slapped his head. Eggs, he thought. Eggs…
And with that, he called the general, even though he didn't need the general to call in the stealth forces. Still, the king wanted some feedback, and when he said, "Humpty Dumpty," the general knew exactly what he meant.
"My men can handle the egg," the general said with confidence. "Over easy, poached or however you'd like the egg served. We'll cook the bastard, short order style."
"Eliminate the egg."
The soldier looked at the order. He turned it, crumpled it in dismay, smoothed it out again to see if he hadn't misread the order's wording.
Yes, that's what it said:
"Is this shit affirmative?" He held out the message. "Eliminate the egg?"
Captain James, nodded. "Paper's don't lie."
His men, catching wind of the exchange, turned to face him. James shrugged, then touched his blond ponytail; the only soldier in the king's military given the okay to wear his hair that way.
"Orders are orders," he announced to the platoon. "Like some of you, I too have fond memories of the egg. It has been around as long as I can remember. In Christmas commercials, skiing downhill, coming on right after the electric shaver with Santa riding inside it. Then there were the Spring and Summer commercials. A fat egg in swim trunks being not at all a pretty sight, but it was our sight. Our kingdom's sight. Well, hell, Humpty should die just for that, am I right?"
"Hurrah!" yelled the soldiers.
"But no. In this case, Humpty will die as something worse. The egg will die as an enemy of the state. And we will get it, won't we soldiers? We will rid ourselves of the egg's oppression, won't we?"
"Hurrah!" came the response.
"Now suit up, and radios off. Communicate by hand. This fucking egg is to be poached, no questions asked."
The Humvee arrived gently and parked nicely. The soldier emerged from it to wander his way toward the pub. R&R was his mission, and Cullen planned to spend it first with a strong whiskey shot toward whatever might come for him that night.
Of course, Cullen was armed, and of course a vehicle was at his disposal, for in these days of the ever-present rebellion, one side blurred incessantly toward the other, and toward that, a soldier needed to be ready, even if he was as grandly drunk as Cullen planned to make himself.
So Lieutenant Edward Cullen walked in. He sat down on the first available stool. He ordered his shot, then felt the nudge in his side.
"Hey, Colonel." It was a civilian; a fat, wasted blight of what Cullen was here to protect one day, then destroy another. "Hey, Colonel," the man blubbered in repeat.
"I'm not a colonel," and Cullen swiped a hand toward the rank on his shoulder.
"Well what of it then?" the man slurred. "You'll soon earn your stripes if you save that sad bloke there."
The man jabbed his thumb to a shadowy corner of the pub. Cullen turned, looked, and widened his eyes in disbelief.
"Oh, for the love of…" He shook his head.
"Lofty spot for you, eh, Cap'n?"
Cullen flicked his eyes from the darkness to the man. "I'm not a captain, either."
"Colonel, Captain, whatever. You're certain to get a raise in rank if you get our friend away from here without cracking the shell."
Cullen didn't answer. He edged himself from his stool, realizing there now would be no drink for him, possibly no R&R either.
He approached the giant round figure. Cullen glanced at the empty tumblers on the nearby table, then upward at the giant blue vest/jacket.
"Sir Dumpty," Cullen acknowledged.
"Present and willing, soldier," bellowed the egg.
"You've had quite a bit." Cullen motioned to the empties. "Quite a bit, it seems."
"Present, but now past."
"I should escort you home, sir."
"You should, soldier, if I had one. But unfortunately, I do not believe I can return there. Take a note, please. Call headquarters, and see for yourself if the Dumpty residence is still intact."
"Intact, sir?"
"My meaning, soldier, is it's probably looted. Looted and burned to the ground."
Cullen nodded, but said nothing. He, in fact, didn't know what to say.
"You don't believe me, soldier? You don't concur that I am a wanted egg? Are you brainwashed and now left soggy like all the rest? Bollocks! I'll tell you what. I'm all full up here. That's all there is to that. I think I've drunk all this place has to serve in my regard. So I'll get up as I imagine you are asking me, soldier, and I will let you escort me somewhere away from here, I imagine, my safety. However, it will not be to my home. My home is now destroyed. I can tell you that with the utmost of confidence. I'm an egg without a castle, an egg without a nest." The egg stared past Cullen to the front of the bar, narrowing its bloodshot eyes. "And now I fear they're coming for me."
"Coming? Who?"
"Your mates. Your fellow soldiers." The egg smiled its giant face. "And it's not to help you get me out of here."
Just then, the front of the bar exploded into shambles, knocking Cullen back into a wall. Immediately, he raised himself, gazed through the smoke, then saw those of his ilk advancing, soldiers in tan fatigues, weapons raised.
But no, their guns were not supposed to be drawn. Their rifles did not need to be out. Their firing shields had no place being over their faces. But all was nonetheless there. All was in place and at the ready. And even then, with those notions swirling in Cullen's head and he muddied from the explosion's concussion, the beginning instincts to survive raised the lieutenant's hand, then his voice:
"Friendly! Friendly! Kingdom's soldier present! Soldier present! Friendly present!"
"Get the egg!" said a voice, and the soldiers trampled past. Cullen raised himself from the seedy sticky pub floor to gaze at the seedy stickiness above the floor. He saw the passing "friendlies," in their blur of faces and action until one raised the stock of a rifle to slam it into Cullen's forehead, blackening the world.
When Cullen came out of it, he heard one word from the fat drunk he initially sat beside. That word was more a name, more a destination: "Greenlands."
Cullen looked to where the man pointed his fleshy hand; a claw, really, as his hand looked as if it missed one or two fingers. The drunk's indication was a direction and now, an objective. However, after Cullen got to his feet and staggered out into the grim daylight, he found his Humvee missing.
He turned to the drunk who had staggered out after him.
"Drive me," Cullen demanded.
"No way!" The man held up his hands. "Not me. Not out to Greenlands. Those are the killing fields, man! Forget it!"
Cullen drew his sidearm and aimed it at the drunk's forehead. "Drive me, now!" he insisted, barrel leveled.
Minutes later, the drunk's pickup bobbed and weaved, his life still at gunpoint, until they arrived at a mound of scalded earth. Here, the man stopped.
"Kill me if you must, but I ain't going on. I've got a family. Shoot me here, because I wouldn't want them knowing I died in a place a person goes to when they want to die, or are forced to die."
Cullen gave the man a quick look, then reached for the door handle to exit.
"Go home," Cullen said back into the interior. He next slammed the door. "You've done your civic duty today."
The man stomped the gas and roared off, leaving Cullen in a cloud of dust. Then when some of the dust settled, Cullen had the notion to move forward, then bend as he approached a glow of lights at the top of a low hill. As he closed in on that light, Cullen hunched flat beneath the frigid night's air to the more frigid ground, waiting next for what to do.
Of course, interrupting Cullen's train of thought was the sudden whininess of Humpty's voice, stating the rather unbelievable circumstances of the circumstance at hand. The illegality of this circumstance, in fact. That no one authorized it. No one could have authorized it. A killing of the national egg? No way, no how. Doesn't anyone know who the bloody hell Humpty Dumpty is?
The egg did not plea for its life as would an ordinary non-egg/man would do. But then again, Humpty was not a man, and definitely not ordinary. Humpty was aristocratic, proper, stiff-upped-lipped. But Humpty certainly was not a man.
Cullen crawled closer. He bit his lip with the thought he caused noise. He moved upward to see Sir Humpty tied to a large pole the size of which could hold a basketball hoop. Soldiers stood all around, aiming rifles. In lieu of this, Cullen, even while standing to raise his voice to stop what became apparent as an execution, regretted doing so, for now, with just one word, "Stop!" the lieutenant was as much a criminal as the Humpty Dumpty.
Immediately, the rifles twisted Cullen's direction. Spotlights from Humvees followed, and in a split second, Cullen was lit milk white in harsh light that left everything else around him dark.
A voice shouted for Cullen to identify himself.
"Cullen, Edward," he returned.
"I'm Captain James. Are you a friendly?"
"Yes."
"Division and Rank?"
He said his rank, his division, 1225.
"God's speed to you and yours, soldier," said James. "I heard about your loss. Now, be on with it. What's your purpose here?"
"I'm here about the egg. About Humpty. What's he up for?"
"King's order. A directive. Execution."
Why?"
James' laugh echoed. "Why not in these days?"
Cullen said nothing. To his side was the bulbous pole-tied Humpty, breathing and whimpering thickly.
"Check him," James demanded.
"Yes, sir!" rang out another voice.
Footsteps trotted forward and past the outstretched guns trained on Cullen. He faced with a baby-faced soldier, probably just out of his upper grades, but now here in the royal army.
"You're a lieutenant," the young soldier said. Then he shouted over his shoulder, "The man's really a lieutenant. One of our." Then back to Cullen. "Bloody hell."
"Quit talking to the bastard and search him!" James rang deeply from the dark. "Or shall I send in someone for your assistance, Private?"
The soldier gave an embarrassed smile. Cullen nodded in understanding, then pulled his sidearm, and grabbed the soldier to whip him around and place the barrel to the soldier's soft temple.
"I may not see you in the dark, but you see me. I'm certain of that, yeah?"
The young soldier whimpered, struggled, but Cullen tightened his grip.
"Steady, lad," he said. "If this goes off against your head, Mum will have an awful mess to cry over."
"What do you want Cullen?" James rang out.
"Release the egg."
"Can't, Lieutenant. The egg's an enemy combatant."
"No," Cullen said. "No. It's a mistake."
"I wish so, but no. There's been no mistake. At any rate, you must first unhand my soldier before we can talk about the egg."
Cullen stared straight ahead as two soldier, then three more, than four more appeared out of the darkness into the white circumference of the spotlights. Cullen tightened himself around the soldier. He dug his gun's barrel farther into the fleshy head, causing a small cry.
"Why is the egg to be executed?" Cullen asked.
"Why do you care? Why do I care to even tell you? The egg's an embarrassment as far as I see. Otherwise, them's just me orders."
Cullen now faced seven rabid-faced veterans of horrific violence. Yet, unbeknownst to them, Cullen held a live grenade snapped from Rufus' belt as he fell away to the ground. Cullen knew this type of soldier. He served with them, then upon becoming an officer, led them. Yet with no love now for these proud few who had soured to brutal beasts, Cullen tossed the grenade into the very middle of them like it were a stone or a marble. Their concentration fell out of their bared teeth and wide eyes. There was confusion, scatter, beginnings of screams. It was odd, it was new, it was not counted on, those screams, knowing they came from the royal army's bravest.
Cullen ducked away. Even so, he felt the pieces of flesh and body parts fly past him. He heard cries and growls, then immediately afterward, shots which rang out his direction, which while in a thicket of brush, he readied his own gun, a soldier's rifle next, and laid out for handy reach more grenades stolen from a dismembered lower waist.
More shots sliced and pounded the ground around him. Cullen answered with two grenades, thrown in succession, which when they exploded, left an eerie silence to the Greenlands. But in a moment, a moan rose, then wild gunfire. Cullen felt no mercy. He tossed a third live grenade in the noise's direction, and in a second, with that explosion having gone off, only wind was heard. Wind, then one minute, two, three, four, Humpty's blubbering cries before the egg lamented faintly from the hilltop, "Oh dear! This is terrible! Oh no, they were going to execute me!"
Humpty continued this as Cullen climbed to his feet, staggered forward, then staggered by the remnants of soldiers; the parts and pieces, until he reached where Humpty was tightly tied to the pole.
"Bastards all. They were going to do away with me! Execute me dead on. No questions asked."
"I realize that," Cullen said, cutting the rope with his field knife.
"I hope so, soldier. For there will be an honor for you. A reward. A medal. I'll see to it myself."
Cullen pulled lose the last of the heavy rope. Then he looked over the damage, the death, the soldiers' remains. Something caught his eye, because something moved. One was still alive, and Cullen rushed over to bend to him despite the egg's shouts to not go near, that it could be a trap. Cullen leaned over the broken, bleeding, powder-burnt body.
"King's orders," the soldier hissed. "Kill the egg. It's a deficit." The hiss turned to a laugh." That drunk fuck, eh? All this for a fucking egg?"
The soldier laughed his last, then breathed his last.
When the smoke cleared, and the soldiers, even the most remotely alive, now ceased to move, Cullen had his first cry. It was a silent, soft whimper that belied his harsh appearance of mud-stained fatigues and face.
Then Cullen heard the egg. He heard its groaning appeal. Words came out of it, that egg, and in their tone, protest. Cullen raised to his feet, taking up the first available rifle. He slid back its bolt to ready the clip.
"You," he said gravely. "You are the cause here."
"Steady now. Remember, I am a symbol of your kingdom, kind knight. Without me, just as you earlier exacted, what have any of us in the name of all that we are?"
"In the name that all I am is murderer of my own men, all because I thought to save your symbolic hide."
"And were they that? Were they your men? Of your legion?" The egg seemed amazingly unfazed by the reality an automatic rifle was aimed at its pie face. Calmly, Humpty said, "Your king has fallen. It is true. He has imploded under pressures by those who have their own stake in the kingdom's issues."
"And one of the issues," Cullen growled, "is of course you."
"'Tis."
Cullen looked over the burned moor, and the dead soldiers upon it. Cullen turned back to the egg.
"All of what you say does nothing to rid the fancy I have to shoot you to pieces?"
"That's fine, soldier, because you haven't the fancy. If so, you would have done so a minute or two prior."
Cullen felt himself stumble. He blinked and tried for focus.
"You're just a lush." It was a weak retort. Lame. Without strength. But it was all Cullen had. "A lush of an egg meant to be some note of principle."
"Aye. That's what I am." Humpty smiled enormous teeth. "Now if you finish untying me, I shall wish to go to safer haven."
"What about all I've just said?" Cullen demanded. "How about an answer to that?"
"I just gave you an answer, soldier. And my reply is I wish to go."
Now adequately free, and decidedly mobile enough to hobble about on its thin legs, the egg pointed its stumpy arms toward a strange-looking lorry.
"I was transported in that. The boys knew it was all that could bring me here. In one piece, that is, before they were to blow me apart."
Cullen squinted at the odd vehicle, it's trailer portion tall like a rectangle on end. He nodded.
"Let's be on with it then."
"Yes, but to where?" Humpty asked.
Cullen shifted his eyes toward the dirt and gravel secondary road, and the darkness it continued on into. Nothing about the road reassured him as it only led deeper into the Grasslands. After a moment, the lieutenant could only shrug at his circumstances.
"We should just move is all," he said.