The kings of the world are fewer than many suppose. A couple are not even white men. One is a woman. But even so, they are the secret rulers of the world and meet evety six months to decide the shape events will take.
“We have a problem,” one says, who says such things too often for everyone’s liking. Getting famous too young was dangerous, even for a king. When he thinks no one is around, he tells people his initials are really JC rather than JB and he is the Second Coming. Fame is a strange beast.
“There has been a flaw,” one of the elders agrees, and people listen. Because he faked his own death, and because of who he was.
Another smiles, tv-perfect, voice newscaster smooth: “The Kardashian woman?”
“We did not intend,” the first snaps, hesitant, the sentence unfinished. He is young enough to wonder at plots he cannot see, but tries to hide it. Even a king may be a pawn.
Discussions and debates fly back and forth but they are calm. These are media people. They understand the power of appearances. But even so, nothing comes of it and they are troubled.
In the corner of the room the secretary writes down minutes, and no one notices her slow, sly smile.