by Kari August
“Oh, bother. Did I miss the election of officers?” Teddie appeared genuinely disappointed.
“Officers?” Richard frowned. Now what was he getting at?
“You know—the officials who will help you run the club. I was anticipating being at least Director of Social Events or dare I hope . . . Vice-Chair?”
What the hell was a Vice-Chair? “Look, Teddie, there are no social events planned—”
“Now that’s a shame—”
“And I have no intention of running this club like some unruly democracy. Any officers will be appointed by me as reigning ruler—”
“Oh, so can I be Vice-Chair?”
Richard gave up. He just wanted to be done with Teddie. “Yes.” Richard stood and motioned with his hand. “Now off you go. I’m sure you have many more clubs to get to.”
Richard had just finished watching Teddie depart, when there was a knock on the door. He motioned for his servant to open it again, but before the man got a chance, the door swung wide on its own.
“Dickie! What a great idea! I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a warrior—to plan like a fighter, to think like a soldier, and now in heaven I will have my chance.” His sister Mags strode confidently over to his throne.
Richard inwardly groaned. She must have been visiting some of her 1960’s friends again—she was wearing a miniskirt. Dickie strongly disapproved of some of Mag’s new acquaintances. They filled her mind with all sorts of strange notions—such as the importance of equality for women. How absurd.
No way was Richard going to allow Mags to participate in his club—he wouldn’t permit any woman for that matter. He thought of the most obvious way to rid himself of his sister and repeated what he had just told Teddie. “This club is only for warriors who have actually fought or led in battle.”
Mags smiled. “Well, I kind of led.”
“I doubt that.”
“I helped supply men and weapons for my husband’s battles.”
Dickie raised his hands. “Sorry, that doesn’t count.”
Mags frowned. “Well, how can you expect any women to join your club when so few have actually been in battle in the past.”
“That’s the point. Women are not allowed in my club.”
“How unfair . . . and medieval!”
“I am medieval. I’m a medieval King.”
“You haven’t heard the last of this, Dickie,” Mags declared over her shoulder as she stomped towards the door.
Richard just shook his head.
Little did Richard realize that within a few weeks that tiny mistake of naming Teddie Vice-Chair would snowball into his club becoming the most unselective, and yet, the most popular in heaven—that is, at least among the men.
Teddie had returned the next week with several more acquaintances, including Richard’s own brother, King Edward IV—one of the best warriors in the history of the world, but also one of the biggest partyers—which was precisely why Richard had not bothered to mention to Eddie that he was forming an intellectual debating club.
Teddie had then suggested that Eddie become Social Director, and though Richard had intended the club to be reigned by himself in an imperious fashion, he couldn’t very well object to the subsequent on swell of favorable opinion on the new role Eddie would play or on all sorts of other matters.
First thing he knew, Eddie had arranged for drinks and poker after each discussion. Their membership had really bulged then, forcing meetings to be held outside the castle for more room. But the club had positively ballooned when Eddie’s best friend in heaven, Peter the Great, then pleaded for mock battles— “Let’s put what we’ve discussed to form, Dickie!” The membership had roared with approval.
Unfortunately, about then Mags decided to make her appearance again.
And she brought a few new friends. Viking women. Richard looked them over. Good Lord, they were a rough-looking lot.
She approached his throne. “Dickie!”
He held up his hand. “Before you say one thing more, Mags, I want to inform you that this is no longer just a debating warrior club. We plan to have actual battles.” He smiled smugly—thinking that ought to get rid of her quickly.
But she just grinned in return. “Yes, I heard. And we are prepared to do our part. Aren’t we women?”
The Viking females grunted in response.
“My friends here have fought in battle and have shown me some of their techniques. So, how do we sign up to become members?”
He stood. “You don’t. No women allowed. And my ruling is final, Mags.”
She glowered a moment at him, then asked sarcastically, “So, who made you King?”
“I did. Now off you go. Why don’t you find some nice embroidery club to join? Hmmm?”
He took pleasure watching the group depart in a huff.
Shortly afterwards, the different participants for the initial mock battle were chosen. There were some issues to settle then. A heated discussion ensued over which weapons were to be used, ancient or modern. Richard found himself squirming on his throne as he realized there were so many weapons being mentioned that he had never even heard of. How embarrassing since this was his club. He remained quiet, hoping nobody would notice his ignorance and thanking the heavens that he had not insisted on participating himself in the first set of battles, but remaining as overseer of the whole club.
But just when the matter was about to come to a fight one of Richard’s new heavenly friends, Leonardo da Vinci, appeared. The membership quieted, waiting to hear what Leonardo had to say—he commanded that kind of attention—if for no other reason than he tended to prance around in flashy pink hose and tunics as he was attired now.
Richard had never met Leonardo on Earth but had become acquainted with him at one of God’s mixers. Though they were both late fifteenth century men, his artist friend had not come to prominence in Italy until about a decade after Richard had passed away fighting in England. Richard liked his ingenious mind, and Leonardo appreciated Richard’s wry sense of humor.
“King Richard, I am here to volunteer my services.” He smiled in that charming way he had about him.
“Leonardo, be realistic. You’ve never fought in battle,” Richard pointed out to yet another eager participant.
“True. True. But I have a passion and talent for designing weapons of warfare.”
“So, I’ve heard. But aren’t you too busy over at the Artists Club?”
Leonardo scoffed. “I’ve had it with those sniping comments coming from that untalented aspirant Michelangelo. He paints like a sculptor—he can’t get it through his thick poopnoggin that the blending of colors and shadows gives more definition to the figure than his amateurish outlines—”
“Yes, well . . .” All of heaven was aware of the squabbling between the two talented men, but that wasn’t what Richard’s club should be debating about themselves. Yet Richard had to appreciate the fact that Leonardo, like himself, kept the same grudges in heaven he had held while living.
Richard briefly surveyed the crowd. Indeed, that wimpy Tudor, King Henry VII, who had usurped Richard’s throne in battle, still didn’t have the bollocks to show himself here.
“So, if you will allow, King Richard, I will design a weapon for all combatants to use in the next mock battle.”
Now see, this was exactly why Leonardo was so popular in heaven. He respected the fact that this was Richard’s club and deferred to him. Richard replied, also addressing the membership, “We will take you up on your offer as long as you can supply the weapon several days before the actual battle so our participants can become accustomed to it.” Richard had added that warning because he also knew that Leonardo had a terrible reputation for not completing assignments on time, if ever.
But just then, God appeared in his usual foggy state so that no one in heaven knew precisely what he looked like. Richard inwardly smirked. Ever since his club had become so popular, he had just been waiting for his appearance—God never
seemed to like being out of the action of things. And even if he did tend to promote peaceful interactions, he obviously made exceptions.
“Richard, Leonardo and I will design this weapon together. I’m assuming it can be as vicious as possible—after all, you’re already dead. What’s the significance of getting killed again?” God laughed uproariously.
Richard guessed that was what one called God humor. He tried to smile politely.
“Come, Leonardo. I want to talk to you about a triple action triphaser or perhaps a revamped sword from the Qing dynasty.”
Leonardo followed, but his voice could be heard trailing away. “And I think we should make this weapon as artistically threatening as possible. Perhaps with a snarling dragon on top?”
So now everyone realized that in all probability they would not know what kind of weapon they would be using until the very last minute.
More debating then ensued for what else could be brought onto the battlefield. Finally, it was decided that nothing other than what the land could supply would be at their disposal. So, in other words, those Seals who had been chosen for battle would not have available any of their fancy armored vehicles, or whatever else it was they were accustomed to. But, on the other hand, since horses roamed the land, anyone who desired, could be mounted. When the Seals protested that they didn’t know how to ride horses, everyone snickered, and they sat back down disgruntled.
So, besides the drilling and training, over several weeks, moats were dug, rock fortresses were erected, elaborate trench systems were devised, catapults were erected for siege warfare, bows and arrows were made, clubs and tomahawks were fashioned, and everyone had a good laugh at the Seals trying to catch and ride horses for the first time. They still weren’t proficient horsemen to everyone’s glee.
Oh, and naturally, Eddie and Peter took in the wagers for who would win—the champion being simply whoever had the most men still standing after one full moon cycle—some of the warriors weren’t too skilled in assessing time otherwise.
But just when Richard felt everything was nearly settled—except for the weapon design—who should arrive again?
Of course, Mags.
Only now she had a whole slew of obnoxious women with her. Not only were the Vikings present, this time adorned with war paint and an angry attitude, but some more of her new heavenly friends—namely those female troublemakers from the sixties and onward, the equality for women horde.
Richard met them head on. He raised his hand imperially before they could step onto the planned battlefield. “Just where do you think you’re going, Mags?”
She scowled. “Look, Dickie, we’re joining your club. Let us pass so we can decide which contingent of men we want to join in battle.”
“Oh, no. Absolutely not. I told you, no women allowed.”
Mag’s frown deepened as loud grumbling occurred among her friends.
By now a large group of the warriors were noticing the commotion and began traipsing over from their activities to see what the fuss was about.
Richard wanted to just gag his sister, but then he fathomed a way to resolve the issue once and for all.
He realized that this was surely one of those scarce occasions when democratic rule would be better than his monarchy. “Fine, Mags. We’ll hold a membership vote. All in favor of not allowing any women to participate in our club, say, aye.”
The men roared, “AYE!” overwhelming the women’s boos.
Richard smiled at his sister with satisfaction. He did then happen to notice that some of those strange Seals and even a few Viking men were looking a bit sheepish. What was that about?
But he did not have time to contemplate it further because the Viking women began threatening “to fight it out.” Then one of the sixties dames—who looked as far from a warrior as possible with her unrestricted boobs flopping about and FLOWER POWER written on her shirt—announced bossily, “Hold the aggression for now. First, we peacefully protest. Time for our sit in, women.”
“What?”
Mags scoffed, “Oh, Dickie, get with it, would you?”
“Get with it? What does that mean?” Dickie hated it when his sister used modern jargon she had learned from these women.
“We’re officially in protest over your club.”
The women then proceeded to sit on their arses—exactly where they had just been standing. Richard was flabbergasted.
“Get up, Mags. What are you doing?”
“We’re not moving until you let us into your club.”
The women then began chanting, “Let us in. Let us in.”
Teddie hurried over at that point. “Just heard about the problem, Dickie. Can I be of help as your Vice-Chair?”
“Why, yes, Teddie. Keep a close eye on these women. Don’t let them trespass any further onto our battlegrounds.” He then turned to the remaining assembled crowd. “Carry on, men. Just try to ignore this undignified outburst.”
“Let us in. Let us in,” came at Richard even louder.
Those irritating women kept up their demonstration for at least a week, then finally, as if by magic, they disappeared.
It had been a while since Richard had seen hide or sign of them, including his sister. Now atop a rise, Richard considered the group of warriors, preparing to participate in the mock battle, and wondered who would win the coming clash. President Grant, famous from the American Civil War, Napoleon, and King Richard I, better known as the Lion, had been chosen as commanders for this first fight. Each had then been allowed to pick their own men-at-arms, or troops, as Grant liked to call them, for their flank, rear and vanguard positions. They could have selected any warriors they preferred, but all had eventually decided on men from more or less their own experiences or original territories.
Grant stood silently in thought, smoking a cigar, and wore his usual casual attire of clothes—one could scarcely distinguish him from a common soldier. He had asked Sherman to direct his weathered Army of the Tennessee, Sheridan to head a group of cocky Navy Seals, and Crazy Horse to lead a bunch of irritable, scowling, Native Americans, including one particularly pompous combatant called Sitting Bull.
Richard the Lion, easily stood out from among the crowd, being so tall with a distinctive carrot mop. He was inspecting his defenses yet again. He had chosen William Wallace to manage a group of barbarian Scots, as well as some rowdy Irish and Welsh, and Wellington to oversee the Normans. He had then surprised everyone by choosing Saladin to direct the Saracens—the very ones he had fought against while on crusade.
Dickie smirked. Just like his great-great-great-or-something-uncle to stir things up a bit. But then there was a rumor he had once tried to betroth his own sister to the brother of that infidel for the sake of an alliance.
Finally, Richard’s gaze settled on Napoleon. What a conceited little rooster he was, strutting back and forth across his designated training grounds in his elaborate imperial costume. He had chosen the Marquis de Lafayette to lead a group of promenading French—who were known to place the value of appearing chivalrous over their own safety—and King Rollo, who had once conquered territory in France, to supervise some surly Vikings. Richard had wondered why his last choice had been Alexander the Great for a group of Macedonians, but then he had overheard some men talking how the antiquities had been au courant during his era. Sure, they were a ferocious group of men, but Napoleon had chosen them because they were fashionable? But then, anything was possible when talking about the French as far as Richard was concerned.
He inwardly shook his head. This whole unlikely melee had the potential of turning into a chaotic ruckus. The men were getting restless for the battle to begin. It was about time that God and Leonardo produced that weapon the warriors were to use.
A sudden commotion now caught his attention. Oh, wonderful. Some drunk Celts were taunting the primping French with obscene gestures.
Ah, oh. And now the Celts were mockingly wringing their hands in front of their eyes, as if crying like babies, w
hile offended Frenchmen walked away in high dungeon. Richard would have to send his Vice-Chair over to talk to the Celts. He couldn’t do it—he was with them on this one.
But just then, Herman, God’s assistant, arrived.
Before he addressed Richard, he waved over at Eddie at the betting table. “Did you like the new topping on the nachos, Eddie? I devised the spicy sour cream and onion mixture myself.”
Eddie waved back cheerfully. “Stupendous, Herm.”
Herman now turned back to Richard, smiling. “That Eddie. He’s the life of the party.”
“So, you’ve told me, Herman.” About a million times Richard wanted to add. “What brings you my way?”
Herman took on a serious expression, lowering his chins. “Oooh. God wants to talk to you, Richard. Immediately.”
Finally. This had to be about the weapon, but he had to ask, “What about?”
“Shouldn’t really say.” Herman picked at some food on his apron. “But it’s about your sister. Best you hurry along.”
Richard frowned, wondering if his sister had made a stink to God about not allowing women in his club.
When he arrived in front of God’s throne, sure enough, he had the distinct feeling something was awry though he couldn’t make God out from the fog. There was just something in the air.
God got directly to the point. “I’m sending you back to Earth, Richard.”
“I beg your pardon?” This was totally unexpected. Yes, Richard had been sent back twice before—once when Richard had argued about getting a chance to repair his tattered reputation in the twenty-first century and God had listened, and then another time when Richard had finagled a return by beating God in a game of poker so he could help his distantly related American cousin—but still. What could have possibly happened to bring this about now?
“You heard me. You will leave on the morrow.”
“But . . . but . . . what about the battle at my club and the weapon Leonardo and you were supposed to come up with and—”
“Your Vice-Chair should be able to handle anything you miss.”
