For King, Country, and Busting a Nut

There was this fucking fairy. I'd created it to survey the lands and report back to me. But lately it would just fuck. I was lowkey jealous of how easily this fairy got pussy. Or dick. Or both at the same time. In weird positions. I watched like a creep as my creation galivanted around the hillsides just power fucking. Like what the fuck. Why wasn't I getting any but my stupid little fairy was Lord Dionysus himself? He'd report back to me and I pretended to find his findings helpful, "A wench at the Rusty Tavern says you're not a fit ruler," he'd say. Or, "Brenden the bold challenges you to a duel." 

I hadn't the heart to tell him his "findings" sucked. I was self-aware enough to know that my anger was more at myself than my fairy. I hadn't the courage to approach damsels or knights and just straight up say things like, "you're hot, how would you like a toss in the hay?" 

On the other hand, I felt that criticizing my fairy's reports would just make him shut down, or worse, he might leave me. 

You see every night I would force this fairy to cuddle with me. I'd try to kiss his little lips but he'd turn his head away from me and flutter his wings like an angry bee. But at least he'd stay cuddling, even if he did turn away from me. I loved this silly little thing. 

I buried my face in my hands one night and cried solemnly, "I will rise again!" 

This startled the fairy and he scoffed, knowing I would do nothing. 

And he was partly right. 

But I did get out of bed for the first time in weeks. I did put on my slippers. And I did walk outside and smell the lilacs. I guess the rain had fallen enough for them to stay alive somehow (I sure as hell hadn't watered them in weeks). I put on a stinky tunic and hose and walked into town. I saw Brenden the Bold but when Brenden saw the shape I was in, he just looked at me and my fat belly with disgust. 

Me too, Brenden. Me too, I thought. 

I wandered into the Rusty Tavern for a drink. Fortunately, my fairy must've been elsewhere. The last thing I needed on a day I felt good enough to venture out was to see him power fucking some bath house wench. 

So I ordered a pint and spilled some in my lap as my shaky hands brought the drink to my lips. The foam got in my beard and that tickled. I laughed. I got weird stares from the other patrons. 

Fuck what they think, I thought. 

And that was the first calming thought I'd had all day. 

"This beer stuff's not too bad," I shouted at the innkeeper, abandoning the expectations of my noble blood for raucousness. 

"Indeed," said the innkeeper, who moped around sadly, continuing to mop the disgusting, sticky floor. I saw he had a dirty rag on his shoulder and his face was wet. He'd been crying. 

He came up to the counter and said, "Would you like to chug a beer with me, kind sir?" 

"I should think I do!" I cried, trying to change his frown to a smile. 

It didn't work, but he did pour himself a beer and we chugged it together shouting "for king, country, and busting a nut!" (I adlibbed that last part to the innkeeper's delight). He smiled! I smiled. 

Then I remembered I was rich and bought beers for everyone at the tavern.