I turned to Cameraperson and whispered, “There better not be any crazy animals or cultists here, CP. Not with them here.”

  Cameraperson raised an eyebrow and winked.

  “I know. I left to pursue this luxurious career in near-death experiences. They left to do…” I sneered and waved around. “This. I still don’t get why we were invited. They could’ve gotten any reporter.”

  Cameraperson stood on one foot and hopped four times.

  I spun, then froze.

  “H-hey Morrison. H-how are things?”

  Morrison hugged me, then turned to CP.

  “Cameraperson, always a pleasure.”

  CP tipped their imaginary hat and bowed.

  Morrison chuckled. “Always the eccentric one.”

  CP put his imaginary hat back on, frowning.

  I slipped an arm around CP. “CP isn’t eccentric. They’re Cameraperson.”

  Morrison cleared their throat. “Shall we get this interview started?”

  I blushed. “Yeah. Where should we go?”

  Cameraperson rolled their eyes so far back it took three minutes to get them back in place.

  Morrison chuckled. “The Teal House. That way we can stroll through town.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I squeaked.

  Cameraperson threw up devil horns, then tilted their head toward Morrison.

  “I know,” I whispered. “But look at that ass, those lips, that shiny bald head. They’re the whole package.”

  CP raised an eyebrow, made a heart with their hands, then broke it in half.

  I looked down. “It was mutual.”

  The words hung there.

  Gunshots cracked in the distance as we entered downtown.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Morrison said cheerfully. “Just regularly scheduled executions. We have fair but strict laws in Grantburg.”

  “What laws did they break?” I asked.

  “Let’s see...” More gunshots. “Two chewed bubblegum on Wednesday. One ate generic cheese curls instead of Cheetos—barbaric! Three conspired against their benevolent ruler.”

  My mouth hung open. CP wiped tears from their cheeks.

  “We’re almost there. You don’t want to be next on the chopping block,” Morrison sang.

  I noted the empty streets and well-stocked stores. Uniformed men slinked through the shadows. A dirty face peeked from a cracked curtain.

  CP casually threw up a hand signal.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  They shrugged.

  “Don’t give me that. You’re working for the resistance, aren’t you?”

  CP looked down, then up defiantly, gesturing all around.

  “You’re right,” I sighed. “But I really want to hate-fuck them.”

  They shot me a disappointed look.

  “Okay. After the interview.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  CP nodded.

  “My ears are burning,” Morrison said. Their face turned grim. “You’re not talking about me, are you?”

  “Of course not,” I said, sheepishly. “Just… commenting on how clean Grantburg is.”

  “We pride ourselves on the lack of filth. Filth is not welcome here.”

  Morrison skipped the rest of the way to the Teal House, humming.

  “We’re here!” They shouted.

  I raised an eyebrow. “A ranch-style house?”

  “Yep. My office and game house. I live over there.” Morrison pointed to a ramshackle skyscraper jutting out of town.

  “That way people know I’m above them. Always watching.”

  “Let’s save the good stuff for the interview. CP, set up over there. Morrison and I will sit here.”

  “Oh, not that chair. That’s the maid chair. CP, be a dear and drag that throne over.”

  CP glanced between myself and Morrison, then shrugged. They lightly kicked the massive throne. It slid across the floor, knocked the maid chair aside, and stopped perfectly under Morrison.

  “I think I might have been sleeping with the wrong one of you,” Morrison purred. “What’re you doing after we’re done?”

  CP gagged.

  “Shall we begin?”

  “We shall,” Morrison said.

  CP flipped a switch, the green light blinked on, then gave a thumbs up.

  “Alison Alistair from Channel 13 here with the notorious Pharaoh Morrison Hickman, of Grantburg. Morrison, how does a kid from Oregon go from breaking hearts to founding a theocracy—and actually playing Pharaoh—right here in the heart of the American Empire?”

  “Well, Alison. I hardly think your heart was broken. You jumped right into bed with Fabian, what… six hours later? As for my glorious country—”

  “I did not jump into bed with Fabian! He got hit by a car and I took him to the hospital. The next day he brought a thank-you card and a basket of cheeseburgers.

  Who wouldn't sleep with a person who brought you a basket of cheeseburgers? I saw him twice. You’re ridic—”

  A tennis ball smacked me in the head. I whipped around, eyes blazing, and shot Cameraperson a “what the fuck?” glare.

  “I digress. Tell me about the founding of Grantburg.”

  “While exploring the northeast—Maine, to be exact—I saw a ‘mayor wanted’ sign. I handed my resume to the deputy mayor—I had her executed because she couldn’t make my coffee right—who saw I could balance a checkbook. Seconds later, she gave me the mayor hat.”

  They pointed to a rack. A spray-painted pyramid hat hung on a hook.

  “How did you go from mayor to Pharaoh For Life and Beyond?”

  “The people here are idiots. I just kept expanding power under their noses. Arresting folks, limiting rights to what I deemed correct. No marriage without approval. All religions banned except for Morrisonism. Voting rights ripped away from the undesirables. You know, the usual.”

  They laughed. “Then I built an army and seceded. Sure, the military tried to stop us. They saw my fifty troops and casually walked away, laughing.”

  “What can you tell me about the resistance?”

  Morrison froze, glaring. “There. Is. No. Resistance.”

  “Didn’t you say—”

  “There is no fucking resistance, Ali. Next question. Before I have you shot—escorted back to your copter.”

  I turned to CP.

  They winked.

  “Okay, Morrison. Love life? Anyone special?”

  “Currently, Cameraperson.” They waved. “Hey sexy.”

  A small pop echoed from CP’s sleeve—a tiny ball shot toward Morrison, expanding into hardened foam, enveloping them in an instant.

  “What the fuck are you doing?! I’ll have you killed! Shot in front of your friends and fam—”

  CP slapped a piece of duct tape over their mouth, silencing them.

  “What the fuck, CP?”

  They pointed at Morrison.

  “Okay, I was here for that. I want the lead-up.”

  CP raised both eyebrows and pointed their foot at Morrison. Then tiptoed in a circle, miming the act of pulling on gloves.

  I groaned. “And you didn’t tell me because I dated that raccoon spleen.”

  CP pointed behind them.

  The door burst open. Resistance fighters rushed in, fist-bumping CP. They grabbed Morrison and carried them out.

  “Shall we follow?” I asked.

  CP nodded.

  Outside, chaos reigned.

  I’ve come to appreciate chaos.

  A member of the resistance raised a fist. “The tyranny of Morrison has ended! Throw Morrison to the tortigators.”

  “So much for the hate-fuck,” I muttered.

  The resistance fighter threw his other fist in the air. “I declare today a holiday—Fabian Day!”

  “Fabian?” I asked.

  “Pharaoh Fabian.” He grinned. “Alison.”

  “What is it with all my exes becoming dictators? Let’s get out of here.”

  CP turned the camera off.

  “You were broadcasting the whole time.”

  CP nodded.

  “Genius. Thomason has to give us a bonus for capturing a coup in real time.”

  CP raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re right, that guy's a dick.”

  River and the Bug, River and Friends Part 2 - The Beagle and the Robin, and The Reaper Wears a Scarf on my page.