An inquiry into the nature of evil.

Sitting in the grandiose silence of his throne hall, the evil monarch of the land of Cuntdrip felt as though somebody was about to attack him. Who this strange and as yet unknown assailant might be he had no idea of, but he felt quite sure of it. So, as evil monarchs tend to do, he summoned his evil servant, the eunuch Fristilabo.
Now, in all honesty, we only call Fristilabo an evil man because that fits the idiom of our story, but actually the good man wouldn’t have harmed as much as a fly. But let’s not stray to long to the foolish path of methodology and carry on with the proceedings of the story.
The evil monarch of Cuntdrip told of his worries to Fristilabo, who took it all in rather stoically. He could see an unpleasant assignment coming, but he didn’t mind staying utterly and totally indifferent until the very moment it really came.
“Fristilabo,…”, the evil monarch spoke quite evilly, “I feel you have to gather information about who wants to attack me and why. You’re an excellent servant and you have never failed me before. But since I do am an evil tyrant and this is the land of Cuntdrip and it fortunately fits the idiom of our story I will slaughter your entire family if you fail to find out who wants to kill me, and why. I’ll give you one week. Now leave, before I cut of your testicles.” Fristilabo felt it would be useless to try to explain to the king what the word ‘eunuch’ meant.
He took a bow and left the throne hall without uttering a single word. He knew the task at hand was an unpleasant and perhaps an impossible one, since the king was clearly being a paranoid jerk, but he choose not to bother to care too much about it. He thought it just wasn’t worth the fuss.

Fristilabo left on his trusty horse Volkswagen Polo Sport. He had gotten the horse as a gift for his fortieth birthday and even though it was already old it still looked quite blitz with its spoilers and customized fluorescent blacklight hoofs. Fristilabo always had thought that his horse had to be a nobleman among horses, because it had a name that consisted of three parts. It hadn't been until very recently that he discovered that the horse's father was actually a lowlife drunk from Brighton. After this discovery his esteem for his horse had fallen dramatically.

Fristilabo drove Volkswagen straight to the marketplace, since this was the place where a lot of anti-governmental gossip was spoken. First he went to see the greengrocer. Marcus, this was the grocer’s name, acted with surprise: “Who’d want to attack an evil tyrant like that?” His own phrasing of this question seemed to surprise him and he took a cabbage and held it ponderously underneath his chin. Five minutes of thinking went by when Marcus all of a sudden said: “Well, I shouldn’t be saying this, since you’re obviously one of the king’s men, but, well, it fits the idiom quite nicely that I’d say thunderously stupid things, so here goes. I, myself, for one have been planning for some time to kill the king. I’d like to hit him over the head with a cauliflower and smother him in Brussels sprouts.” Fristilabo wanted to ask him why he’d want to do such a thing but the baker, who overheard him talking to the greengrocer, screamed the answer at him.
“That man is so terribly evil, I’d like to kill him myself. I would pour chocolate liquor all over him and put him on fire. Or I’d put him in my oven and bake him like a bun. That king would make one hell of an evil cake!”
The butcher also started screaming something about a cleaver and slashing him like a goose and all the customers of the stall keepers started menacing the king. In a couple of minutes' time everybody was making death threats. Fristilabo decided he had gotten enough information out of this place. He thanked the people in the old aristocratic Cuntdrip way, which consists of not thanking them at all and left for another place.

He rode to the university, because he had heard that scientists, activists, students and other dangerous people were working and studying there. He went to the dean and asked him if he knew of any threat to the king’s life. The dean ponderously stroked his long purple beard and held his ornamental turnip in his hands while he wiggled his cock and balls with his other hand. Fristilabo was thinking about the strange ways of the dean when suddenly he started speaking.
“I don’t think there is anyone at the university…”, the dean started and already Fristilabo felt bitterly disappointed. This man would enshroud everything in academic clouds and fantastically difficult terminology. He would have liked to have seen this strange man’s head on a stick. Something about these scientists always struck Fristilabo as odd. They didn’t seem to care about normal things, like sex, food and having a ridiculously long nap in middle of the day. They’d rather stare at dead fish for weeks, without hardly ever sleeping once. How very queer. The dean went on: “There isn't anyone who doesn’t want to kill the king.” Fristilabo already had extended his hand to thank the man for the redundant aid he had delivered when the meaning of the words struck him. "Wh-wh-aat?", he stammered and he noticed he couldn’t close his mouth out of sheer surprise. However hard he tried, the muscles of his jaws just seemed to elude him. “What do you mean?”, he stumbled once again.
“Well, first of all, he is evil. He kills, he maims, he tortures, he rapes children and he eats veal. Secondly, and more importantly, he is a creationist. He believes everything is created by god or the devil or whatsucallhim.”, the dean explained.
“Allah?”, Fristilabo said.
“Don’t be stupid young man”, the dean said to Fristilabo, who was already well in his fifties. “We would of course not kill him in any unsophisticated way. We would kill him molecularly. Atomically. Zoöphilacilly. Or something like that. No fun in soiling our delicate hands with a tyrant's blood.”
“I think I have enough information, for now”, Fristilabo said and he left the university. The dean shook his nose and spat in his eye, which was of course the polite and formal Cuntdrip way of saying “so long, don’t slip in your bathroom”.
Fristilabo decided to go to just one other place, before he’d go back to the king. He had only been gone for one hour, but he thought it wise to inform the king as quickly as possible about all the hostile action he found on his way. He went to the countryside because he had heard from an old farmer that some young lads were planning something they called an agrarian revolution. Of he went on his trusty stallion Volkswagen Polo Sport. "Come on, you big hunk of proletarian horseshit", he yelled, "the king's matters can't wait."

As soon as he arrived at some fields he saw a plaque that said: “countryside, beware of turds and retards”. He also saw a big gathering of young men who were shouting things rather loudly.
Fristilabo went a little bit closer so he would be able to hear what exactly they were shouting.
“Gone with the tyrant!”, one yelled. “Down, down, down with the evil scourge of cuntdrip!”, an agitated one with a hat but no teeth screamed. “Myuggg, myuuug, myuuug!”, yet another one yelled. They all were waving shovels and pointed sticks into the air. One of the men was carrying what seemed like a rather large hemmorrhoid, but was just a big tomato on closer inspection.
Fristilabo, being an official of the law and a long time member of the Mickey Mouse club for screaming lads, hollered what all the fuss was about. “Who are you young, ugly lads inciting against?”, he inquired bravely.
They looked at each other in confusion until one of them stepped ahead and shook the hand of Fristilabo. He introduced himself as “Twat, the thinker of the lot”. Fristilabo asked him once again what all the fuss was about.
“Well, senor Fristilabo”, Twat answered politely, “we are of course taking about the king, the evil tyrant of Cuntdrip. We would very much like to destroy him.”
“But why?”, Fristilabo asked. Once more the shouting began. To summarize such an immense noise would be impossible but since it fits our idiom to oversimplify things we will endeavour exactly this.
To put things in an eloquent way, the farmers wanted to kill the king because he was a nigger. Or so they believed. Fristilabo pointed out to them that he wasn’t. “He’s as white as can be. Actually he’s even paler than all of us, because he sits in that throne room all of the time. He’s always plotting and scheming in the dark, he hardly gets any sun at all.” It got totally silent. The farmers all looked at one another. They were totally surplussed. “We always figured he was a nigger.” One of the farmers tentatively shouted ‘long live the king, hoozey!’ and after a couple of seconds they were all shouting the same.
Fristilabo was too surprised to be happy about this event and after they had all twisted his nose and spat him in the eye he left for the castle.

He arrived exactly ten minutes later. He had been gone for just about two hours. As he entered the throne room the king was already thundering at him: “Back so soon ey, Fristilabo? What kind of an evil servant are you? Any other evil servant would have taken an entire week, would have used up the time as some kind of a paid holiday and would have screwed me like a flatulent old duck. I really resent your honesty Fristilabo.” Fristilabo was panting when he finally reached the approximate location of the king, the throne room really was large.
“Milord, your highness, I bringeth thee the importantest of news”, he sighed.
“Well get on with it, I haven’t got all month!”, the king screamed, even though actually he had.
“I have done a quick survey of the land and I think it’s fairly safe to say everybody wants to kill you. Milord.”
“What do you mean, everybody?”, the king asked.
“Well everybody, the entire populace wants to destroy you. Except for the farmers, but they are all idiots anyway.”
The king sat up straight in his throne, he polished his frock in the traditional regal like fashion, lifted one evil caterpillar like eyebrow and asked, quite slowly and with a bariton voice: “Why?”
“Well, milord, it seems to have something to do with the fact that you’re evil. Everybody hates your guts. Even little children hate you. Darling old grannies would like to castrate you and eat you flesh. Nuns wouldn't hesitate in burning you and scattering you ashes into a pile of dung. As a matter of fact the only one who doesn’t hate you, is me. And I only don’t hate you because you pay me not to.”
For a while the king looked as if he was about to cry. He just sat on his throne, sniffed his nose and wagged his big monarchic head about. After a while he came to a conclusion and spoke.
“Everybody hates me, so nobody has a real motive for killing me. Why would they kill me? It would be a waste of their time, they all would think the other ones would do the job. So they all wait and wait, keeping each other in perfect balance. The only one who disrupts this balance is the one person who doesn’t hate me. You Fristilabo claim not to hate me. So logically, you must be the traitor! You want to kill me!”
“But sire, why would I want to kill you? I don’t hate you!”, the courtier stumbled.
“Ha, that makes it all the more obvious. Haven’t you read the great classics of western literature? People don’t kill out of hate! They kill out of love! If you would kill me it would be a crime de passion, a murder out of infatuation and misguided romantic sentiments! Guards, do away with this fool in love!”
The guards entered and dragged Fristilabo out of the throne room and threw him in the jail cell. The next day he was executed and his head was put on a spike along with the warning words “He who loves the king will be slain”. The king also ordered to have the eunuch’s wife and children slain, and the guards found it wise not to mention that he couldn’t have had a wife and certainly no children. Instead they just killed a peasant family and hung their heads on spikes also.

Afterwards the king felt quite safe and ordered a cup of tea, resting assuredly it wasn’t poisoned or anything horrible like that, because nobody would dream of taking the possibly redundant effort of disrupting the delicate balance of hatred.