“Alright Princess?” by Rosalyn, Paris

topic: BORDERS medium: TEXT

as shared at a PenTales event themed “Royalty”

Listen to the Story!

Alright, Princess ? Gurgled the man as he shifted his weight and pressed his upper body
against the bar, a roll of man-boob spilling onto its surface, trapping a coaster.
“Naav another pint of lager?” Chantal, with an irritated but almost imperceptible flick of her
eyelashes snatched a pint glass from the shelf under the bar and held it at an angle under
the tap. As beer flowed calmly and silently into it, and condensation began to collect on the
outside, this man was annoying her. Usually Chantal was very tolerant of her customers. She
had to be; they got all sorts coming into the King’s Arms. But this guy was somehow worse
than all the rest. Perhaps it was his particularly potent combination of sweat and obnoxious
banter. Perhaps it was the fact that he supported Arsenal – very vocally, for that matter.
Perhaps Chantal found it particularly odious that this man was here, again, drunk out of his
mind at two in the afternoon right when Chantal wanted to sit down and file her nails with a
cup of tea and heat magazine and radio one turned up like on a normal day.
“Thank you princess,” growled the customer with an overly facial wink that revealed an
unhealthily brown row of bottom teeth. “You know,” cooed Chantal, with an arch in her
eyebrow and a conspiratory lult to her voice, “You really must stop calling me Princess.”
She leant forward, “You’ll put me in danger.”
“Eh?” said the man, smacking his lips after an open-mouthed gulp of his beer.
“Yeah,” breathed Chantal, “No one’s supposed to know about me being a princess.”
The customer grinned and let out an unbelieving “Phrrffff!” as he glanced left and right, as
if seeking agreement from imaginary peers.
“I’m serious” Chantal pressed on with her fairy tale. “I’m here as a cover, for my own
protection. See those fellas by the door?” She pointed at a hulking figure devouring a
ploughman’s lunch, as his associate leaned back and read the paper. “They’re Swiss Guard
and licensed to kill.”
The man’s eyes grew wide and he set down his beer, remembering the scowls they had
given him earlier. He felt uneasy. One of them looked a hell of a lot like some chap he had
sold a stolen car to the other week. Could that be him? And what about all those other little
business transactions that had taken place in the pub, under the watchful eyes of goodness
knows whom?
Deciding he should make a quick getaway while he still had the chance, Chantal’s most
annoying customer staggered away from the bar as she watched with a smug grin. He was
doing terribly well with the help of a few chairs on route. Finally he made it to the door,
grasping the brass handle between clammy fingers. And then, without the least bit of grace,
he staggered forward and fell back, into the King’s Arms