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The Shittiest Princess and the Three Ghosties, Part Two

The Shittiest Princess is a series of funny fairy tales for those of us who ain’t exactly cartoon princesses. Stay tuned for a new adventure every week!  You can find the whole series here.

Part one of this exciting story is here!  And now… on to PART DEUX.

A knock knock knock sounded on Princess Poot’s chamber door in the dead of night.

“Um, Princess Poot?” said a male voice. “Please be dressed,” he added.

Poot rushed to the door to hear the guard more clearly. “There’s a visitor here to see you? Says she’s the Ghost of Princess Present, which checks out because she’s, um, sliming me.”

Poot unlocked the bolt, excited to meet another princess who suffered from over-secretion of slime. This princess ghost was green and amorphous, but still blonde, although her hair was in a state of unwashed, cowlick-y perfection. “I am the Official Royal Ghost of Princess Present,” said she. “Don’t bother gliding, I got a report from Princess Past. Just try not to trip and fall through me. It ruins my feng shui.”

“I like your green color, Princess Present.”

“Green is in, and being trendy is the most important thing a princess can be. I’d be made of quinoa if I could manage it.” Present rang the antique bicycle bell hanging from her dream catcher belt, and Poot felt herself lifted upon a whooshing breeze that smelt of underground art opening.

When the smoke cleared, Poot said, “This is the Hair Metal Ball from earlier tonight.”

“Yup. What do you see?”

Poot saw herself. Holy cow, she really was a disaster — un-put-together, pimply, a terrible dancer. Her stomach sunk into her bunny slippers. But she also saw the glorious ballroom, the platters of food, her father smiling confusedly but affectionately at her.

Present pointed; a trail of organic, gluten-removed, cage-free slime hung from her finger. “Observe that woman over there.”

The woman stood alone to the side. She was sneaking sausages into her waist pouch, her spindly arms thin, her eyes sad and nervous.

Poot hugged herself. “I understand everything now. Even though I am… perhaps not the most accomplished princess —”

“You’re the shittiest.”

“Well —”

“Nope. The shittiest. It’s known in this world and the next. It’s even noted in the alternate universe in which Kingdomville is an all-clown penal colony.”

“Okay!” With a huff, Poot grabbed a pig-in-blanket from the buffet. “The point is: I should take more time to recognize the ways in which I’m lucky, and count my blessings instead of my deficits.”

Present batted the hors d-oeuvre from Poot’s hand. “No! The point is: Look at her purple Aztec-print harem pants! Now those are fetch. If you want to be a better person, get some harem pants. As you are now, you’re so dreadfully uncool, you’re practically a retiree from Boca.”

Poot gasped, for while she’d been insulted many times in the past, she’d never been called a Floridian.

Another whoosh, and Poot landed back in her bedroom. Harem pants? Only if she ended up in an actual harem, which was probably her best prospect for romance, at least with the ladies.

She grabbed herself a beer and awaited the Official Royal Ghost of Princess Future, who must be coming next. Sure enough, a bright explosion flashed in the trees beyond her stained glass window. The double panes blew inward, and a terrible apparition flew inside.

Poot screamed and fell clear off the bed. A horrible yellow ghost hovered above, dressed in the tattered, burned remnants of a fuchsia-and-mauve striped clown suit. “I am the Official Royal Ghost of Princess Future!” When she spoke, her dirty red clown nose wiggled terrifyingly. “Put on a flak jacket, and we shall see the approaching dark time.”

Not knowing what a “flak jacket” was, Poot put on her pink pleather moto jacket and took the white-gloved hand of the ghost. They were sucked into a freezing-cold vortex and spit out again next to the moat.

Clowns. Clowns everywhere in the sooty atmosphere. They patrolled the castle grounds with battle axes and flower lapel pins that sprayed acid. Screams of horror shattered the air, punctuated by Harpo horns honked with devilish glee.

Poot asked, “What has happened to Kingdomville?”

Future ghost rubbed her kohl-rimmed eyes. “Your brother, Prince Athletic the Butt Patter, will sign a treaty with the neighboring kingdom of Buffoonica because King Punchinello gives him an oversized novelty football as a present. But Punchinello is not a peaceful man. His clown troopers will soon invade under the guise of ‘entertaining at children’s parties.’ Kingdomville will fall into horrible despair and ruin.”

Poot shuddered as Zombie Bozo ambled by, gnawing on a human leg. “But how can I prevent this? Is this my destiny? To be enslaved by an evil harlequin?”

“Oh, hell no!” Future smiled and patted Poot on the shoulder. “In about ten years, before the clowns come, your father will get tired of you being so shitty and banish you to Whedonville, where a smart-talking yet sensitive secret superhero will take a shine to you. Your child together will return to Kingdomville and defeat the evil therein.”

“That’s awesome!” Poot clapped her hands. “But… what if I simply convinced my brother to not befriend Punchinello? Wouldn’t that prevent this terrible future of clown cars full of cannibals?”

“Poot…” Future pinched the skin between her eyes. “You really need to be run over by the clue bus. The lesson is to escape this place while you can, marry Sir Smirk the Dresses Funny to Fight Crime, and screw these jerks who’ve spent their whole lives telling you that you’re shitty!”

“The other ghost princesses agreed with my nay-sayers.”

Future winked. “Yes, but I’ve met your son, and he is hot. SoooOOOOoooOOO hot! But you must do one thing in order to guarantee your happily ever after. It is this —”

A chime rang out, and Princess Future whipped her ghostly iPhone out of her ghostly pocket. “Ooh! Kingdomville Horror Story: Democracy is about to start. Later!”

Another arctic blast of air, and Poot dropped onto her bed, safe in her thankfully clown-less bedroom. “But what must I do in order to meet Sir Smirk the Dresses Funny to Fight Crime?” she asked aloud. But the ghost was gone.

So exhausted was Poot that slumber immediately claimed her.

The next morning, Poot remembered her strange evening with confusion. Had it been real? Had it been the psychotropic mushrooms? Who can say?

One thing Poot knew she must do — get a pen pal in the kingdom of Whedonville. Maybe there would be a future full of evil clowns or maybe there wouldn’t. But the possibility of a smartass superhero who liked her was not one to be ignored.

And her family had better fucking start being nicer to her.

Or else.

NEXT WEEK Poot battles the color pink in “The Shittiest Princess and the Official Princess Color”!

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Lucy Woodhull

Lucy Woodhull is a novelist, humorist, parodist, and all-around geek. Her new venture is THE SHITTIEST PRINCESS, a series of un-fair-y tales right here on Persephone. You can check out her sexy, fun romantic comedies at www.lucywoodhull.com.

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