Ficlets

King Sex (I)

It was a joke: the yellow diamond sign showing four crowned men walking in profile like some perversion of the Abbey Road album cover. King’s Crossing. Get it? King’s X-ing. King’s X. King Sex. They were all names for the same place: that city that had built up beyond reasonable expectation within the boarders of the King Ranch in central Texas. The city, the county, both coincidentally sharing identity with the ranch of yore, was larger than four different states in the northeastern segment of the now fragmented Union. Everyone had expected Texas to secede first, but in truth, when the shit hit the fan it was Louisiana that broke from the pack and went native. “The USA ain’t done nothing for us and if it’s nothing that we’re going to get, hell, we can do that ourselves.â€? was the way it was put by a former mayor whose city had washed into the Gulf, swallowed by the mouth of the Mississippi, gummed by her silt and sway.

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