Before the mirror, King Roland grins. He shimmies his blubbery hips, wiggles his shrivelled penis, then belches. Last night—what bliss! Smuggled into the royal chamber at midnight, a delicate, fawn-like girl with darting eyes. Just his type.

Later today, King Roland will reveal his new Royal Orders. He blows his whistle. Summons wife number six. Scrub my back, he barks, as she lowers him, with surprising strength, into his solid gold bathtub. As he languishes, he rehearses his speech.

Order one: For their own safety, women are forbidden on the streets after sunset.

Good idea your majesty, wife number six murmurs.

Picking the greasy fluff from his belly button and chewing it, the king continues.

Order two: legal marriage age for women is reduced to thirteen.

Why not? wife six says. Girls grow up so quickly these days.

Order three: he says, winking. No more gobbledegook pain relief during childbirth. Gargling bleach is permitted, naturally.

Wife six stares at the boil on the back of her husband’s neck.

We have too many cars, he says. Women’s driving licences will be revoked immediately.

He pauses, then with a crashing tidal wave, rises from the tub like a humpback whale.

To make our kingdom great again, he bellows, illegal aliens, foetus murderers, scroungers, vagrants, dykes, queers, sexual abominations, spinsters over thirty—Exiled! Deported! Sent packing!

Wife number six toys with her wedding ring.

Midnight, hand in hand six loyal wives steal across the royal lawn. Wife number six hurls over the palace wall a rope, tied from six Hermes silk scarves. One by one, the six svelte wives hoist themselves up and over, then vanish into the dark.

Inside the royal chamber, under black satin sheets, the old king sweats and grunts with the chamber maid, his clapped-out old heart about to burst.

Bio: Jane Salmons