That odd old man and his ominous masterstroke fooled no one. (or "Real: a Red King Backwards")

That odd old man and his ominous masterstroke fooled no one.

In his last days when on his last legs he used to ask us (and tell us)
"why prepare for an eternity in my absence when there is yet no proof of malignancy to my abcess?
"Why, when I have laid no egg do you scheme as if Im a chicken, and dream of omnichromaticly opulent ommelettes?
"You'll never now be endowed with my inheritance unless you can present to me the manner in which you'd face your destiny if I was never born nor sired you
"Riddle me:
When I was a Heron's age I hoped for a name to dazzle the masses in social circles, bazzarrs and on the printed page.
(I was granted my wish and)
When I was a Hound Dog's age I hampered to have privacy and feard the mobs would rob me of my remaining sanity
(I was granted my wish and)
When I was a Hermit Crab's age I gathered my few true freinds and told them my dying wish to be buried with a buffer zone between my legacy and my eternal soul
(I was granted my wish and)
-What creature's age did I finally reach and how long after this acheivement would it take for my remains to be redistributed back in to the bread of the universe, and finally, If you ate me, what color would your leavings be?
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You can thus imagine how he made us cringe, cry and holler, and rob us of our greed by prattleing on in silly riddles, Idle word coughings and childish mind games in eleventh hours.
You see our father was a mad man but no madman. He knew we all prized the promised tresury in his wake because we made it so goddamned obvious.
Me and my siblings had no gifts such as his. Not beauty, nor wisdom, nor even the gift of gifts: Charity. We didn't even know the right way to go about taking pity on ourselves so we spent our non-existant (however always glitteringly imagined) wealth on two types of things:
Things to destroy other people and things to destroy other people's things.
We wore our roucousness nobly and wor out our nobility rapidly,rapidly turned on eachother swimingly, swam in the blood bath rapids of our chaotic battles, and, like babies, never tired of trying to tattle tale and hid behind hoped for familial bonds that turned out only as thick as the hyde of the next logical doomed choice.
And so our long line of fools, fibbers, deserving victums, bitches, situational assholes, gasbags, scumbuckets, gamblers, viol de gamboliers, virulent idiots run amok, problem childen, problem children's children and the promiscous breeders of our vacuous table guests (ever tumbling from their chairs for want of equilibrium even) all found their end on eachothers knife.
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And so, the old man was hounded by all.
All except for one: Julie Lue.
You see Julie lue was the only innocent to ever have a name.
And it was our name.
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They say that saying that "Youth is wasted on the young" is similar to saying "being rich is wasted on royalty" "They" are probably right. (though "they" of course are the voices in my head whose declarations often prove their validity even if "they" dont formally exist... or so Im often told by "them")
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another thing they say is
"the youngest people are always surrounded by crying angels"
well in the case of Julie Lue what they meant was that the brighest flames burn burn purest when waning. (to be frank, Ive always thought that phrase to be more of a demolished buildingsroman than much of a sturdy study in the nature of aging, anyhow...)
Julie lue died at a quite young age, though she had lived what could be called a life. and yet her legend would out live even the old man. As she matured she managed to angle her deeds strait in all ways. She left behind her a trail of little miracles (though they could be reproduced on a bare stage). Her soul meant so much to the people she met that after she'd gone they would feel that they had shed their worth, their mean sins, their worldly cares and their ragged skin.
which is precicely why the old man and the world mourned her on such an epic scale.
He demanded her grave be girded with golden words culled from the prose of the most powerful poets. (though he and all knew that these amounted to nonsense with out her significance, her presence here to be appreciated)
Of course due to our blank awkwardness and plain lack of graces we made the whole thing in to another occasion for chaos. The entire crowd of obselete crows caused such a ragnarok that they had to shine the moon on us.
Our father laughed silently and waited for his cue....