VIP

No one remembers the farts of important men. – Serek II

The Great Serek is usually a man this time of the year.

He was born lucky. Born third from the third to the third kesim of my hometown, they say Serek’s face was so beautiful that the local priests contemplated kidnapping him and selling him off to the seraglio of some distant planet’s prince. When he signed up to train as a xenographer in Gor, fifteen of his lovers went mad and were locked up by the proper authorities.

Xenography wasn’t a high-status occupation in those days. If Serek hadn’t been only sixth in line for the kesimship I’m sure his parents would’ve discouraged him. But they thought it might be entertaining, much like people in this city who smirk and elbow each other when they talk about Cousin Rob who moved to New Zealand to inspire his career as a painter.

I mention this last point because for a long time now xenographers have been honored far above kesims. My own parents were born over 300 years into Serek’s reign. I competed against 30,000 other people for my spot in the academy, and against 14,000 other xenographers for the honor of undertaking this mission.

This morning I thought I was finally getting over my virus and left my apartment to do some work. I threw up so suddenly and so much, and it smelled so much like Peking Surprise, that I’m pretty sure I’m going to need a new van.