Long Live the King

The Kings of the Marmots roused himself from his royal slumber when the sun had already began its indefatigable climb into the azul expanse, shielded occasionally by shreds of cloud left over from the previous day’s storms. He was glad that he had decided today would be temperate. He stretched himself luxuriously on his throne of impregnable stone and reveled in the warmth the sun offered for his pleasure. While the previous day’s storms had been perfectly crafted by his will, drenching his domain in fecund blessings and peals of thunder which sent the picas and chipmunks scurrying for cover, today would be different: Party cloudy throughout the day with scattered showers across the Denver area. High of 78, low of 47. The King of the Marmots had decreed it would be so.

As he finished his stretching and leisurely grooming routine, he looked around to see that the first of his supplicants had arrived. Red-faced and puffing, these strange bipedal serfs made a steady stream in pilgrimage to his throne, strewing it with offerings of Doritos and granola crumbs and taking pictures of himself and his domain to bring back to their abodes far below among the mire of the world. The King of the Marmots cared not what these peasants did with their photos, but he often imagined his portrait hung above their mantles. Perhaps with candles surrounding it, or a wreath of pungent summer wildflowers. Perhaps they kissed it as they went to sleep in their hovels in the dregs of the world.

Perched at the very pinnacle of his high mountain throne, bestowing his haughty gaze upon the throng of serfs congregated to celebrate his greatness, the King of the Marmots spent his later morning and afternoon fulfilling the highest hopes of those who had come to give their worship. As the sun reached it’s zenith in the sky above him, a tallish skinny worshiper approached his ensconced presence and said to the couple to his left, ‘Hey, look at that guy. He thinks he’s the on top of the world, huh?’ The King of the Marmots flicked his lavish eye lashes and turned his head to another angle in response. After appropriately bowing and scraping, the lad made his way back down the mountain, his soul sustained by his encounter with the Marmot-Deity.

About the 10^th hour of the day, when the sun had begun to near the Western horizon, the King of the Marmots saw the last of his subjects make their treacherous way back down to the flats, leaving the appropriate gifts of food and homage. ‘What loyal subjects I have,’ he thought to himself, ‘to risk their life and limb to come and ply me with supplication in my high and unassailable fortress.’ His thoughts were interrupted, however, by a quick flash across the late afternoon’s flattening rays. He peered towards the heaven to see what might have caused it, straining his majestic neck into the cooling afternoon air to better see. Without ceremony, the Golden Eagle which eyried nearby grasped him in its talons and neatly severed his head. Hauling the King of the Marmots’ lifeless form back to his nest, the King of the Eagles thought, ‘What loyal subjects I have, for that marmot to present himself so selflessly on that high and unprotected spot just for my evening meal.’