5. Command performance
Fuck ‘em! Those fuckers back at court! This was their dirty work. Stealing his thunder. Robbing him of his prize! He’d get them. He’d have them by the balls and yanked them off. The stinking motherfuckers!
Tiradates had got excited when at noon a messenger galloped into the camp. His horse was foaming with sweat. The man himself could barely talk .. exhausted. Ridden so hard.
Not his own messenger. Not the man he himself had sent for instructions from the emperor. But Tiradates was still elated that the emperor had sent word back so fast.
Wrong! He should have known. The messenger came from the court chancellor. Never a great friend. The emperor was away, supposedly, not at court. But word of the capture would be sent to him. Tiradates could imagine. At snail’s pace. Distorted by the chancellor’s prejudice against him.
His face didn’t fit. Not “one of them” .. like those fuckers back at court. Contemptuous of this upstart Tiradates. Foul-mouthed, uncouth. But at least he’d got things done. Returning with the rebel prince in chains. And what thanks? Robbed. Those fuckers were fucking-robbing him of his prize. FUCK ‘EM!
Tiradates seethed. Hearing the news. The army was to return forthwith. March back to the capital at haste. But the prisoner stayed. Arrangements were being made for his safekeeping. Pending the emperor’s return. HE would decide what happened next.
FUCK! Tiradates was being separated from his prize. Robbed of his opportunity for fame. Those fuckers back at court .. they’d always had it in for him. He was being robbed. Chances to rise in the emperor’s favours ripped away.
FUCK ‘EM! Fuck ‘em to hell.
The prisoner would be taken care of, the chancellor’s messenger said. An escort would arrive soon. But the general was to proceed to the capital as fast as he could. Tiradates would do that alright. He raced ahead of his troops. He’d get to court and sort those fuckerss out.
But in the emperor’s absence, the chancellor ruled. Disobeying .. refusing to hand his prick-of-a-prince over .. that was treason.
Robbed of his prize. Robbed of his triumphant return. Fucking-robbed of getting showered in favours by a grateful emperor. Well, he’d be fucked if he let that happen. Over his dead fucking-body.
He’d hand the fucker over, he’d have to. And by the sound of it .. where the chancellor was sending him .. it was just what the arsehole-prince needed. THAT would finish him off alright.
But it should be HIM finishing the prick off. HIM, Tiradates, preparing this human-ox to be handed over to the emperor. Tiradates needed to get back fast. Race back to court. Undo this mess. Make sure HE was the one figuring centre stage .. when this fucker twas dragged in before the emperor. Broken. Every bit of spirit crushed out of him. Tiradates just had to be in the right place at the right time when that happened. To take the credit for it.
HELLGATE! Where the fucker was headed. That would do the job alright.
FUCK IT! Fuck those arseholes back at court!
And good luck, prick-of-a-prince. Couldn’t happen to a nicer fool. HELLGATE! That’d see him smirking on the other side of his face. Hellgate. A name that matched the purpose of the place. Serve the fucker right. Hellgate would do for the motherfucker!
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