Queen Revi has to die. This I know for certain.
The second she stole the throne Hagavale was doomed; instead of beautiful brick refugee aid centers and warm diners lining the main stretch, grand crystal obelisks tower over the cobbled street. As per a royal decree, manufacturers must turn away from their family businesses and focus on smelting enchanting jewel ornamentations so intricately etched and designed so the ugly residents would look more appealing on television.
According to Revi, Hagavale was nothing but a hovel for ingenuous savages pent on vomiting putrid bile on the regal Glinspour Expanse, and in her words: “The black strike that is Hagavale will be washed anew in the dawn of the Jewel Age.”
How would embedding blocks of peridot into the roads and inserting opal pillars in Hagavale square make us savages any less brutish? And what about those water purifying stations that provide us with clean water being replaced with pearl chardonnay fountains? How will our youth grow strong and healthy if every meal consists of a glass of wine and a mini sparkle cupcake that they’re made to eat with a fork and knife?
Let me reiterate: she really needs to die.
Feel free to put arsenic in her bedazzled ham during the Glinspourian Ball, bomb the palace, shoot her with a poisoned dart – hell, you can even stab the witch. I would do it myself, but my name’s already on the watch list for recommending beige over bubble gum pink for the interior of the capitol.
You have to act fast, though; rumor has it that she’ll be making us all get mani-pedis and facelifts next week. I wouldn’t be surprised if soon we’ll have to change our names to the imaginative Brittany or David.
To those who still value hard work and steak and potatoes, and wave the magnificently greasy flag of democracy: please save us. I can’t handle another cream-filled sparkle cupcake.