Lion Head Mesa twenty-eighth

he saw what was offered - seeing man would trip over the implication - and the innermost and bittermost parts of him tussled like two fat racoons. 

he could not imagine a peaceful transition of power. not if the son returned, not if the daughter returned, not if the twin spoke up about his right. gucci had seen assassinations, banishments, conspiracies - he did not wish to see a war ( not if it couldn't be handily won ), and felt the seat of akashingo was so highly exalted, those seated eventually began to wheeze for a lack of oxygen.

the patron goddess of the baby-queen watched him from an unpainted face. unaware of own motions, he raised a paw and placed it on the dried section.

"nobility'll come, 'rpa-ha. they'll wash through these halls like first rains through a burrow - leave 'em picked clean, yeah, but clean all th' same." a chuckle. he thought the play of shadows made the goddess wink.

lowering the paw, he looked to senmut.

"what'll queen offer tah those comin'? well, ah ask ya, holiness, like she ain't jest 'round th' bend, but, well," curl of lips. "ah'd like a taste of ripeness, first."