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The Royal Immigrant Problem (ADD Version)

This is the version “for people who have limited attention span.”

The Uncut Version is here.

It’d been a very trying week at work. When I headed home on Friday evening, all I really wanted out of life was to put on my pyjamas, feed my cat, and have a cup of tea. My plan was to be in bed reading by eight o’clock and asleep before nine.

It was drippy and blustery outside. The promise of even worse weather made me eager to call it a night as soon as possible so that I could be coaxed into the arms of Morpheus by howling winds and rain striking the windows.

However.

At around 7:30 my stomach was making other plans, groaning loudly as a reminder that I had not put anything in it since noon. Because I’d been too lazy to go to the grocery store, I was in the quandary I’d faced a couple of weeks before: there was nothing in my fridge except a dozen jumbo eggs, a package of cheese, and some turkey bacon. So breakfast for supper it would be.

At the very moment my egg cooker buzzed, the doorbell rang—which was particularly strange since I don’t have a doorbell.

Figuring the stress of the previous week and my ongoing recovery from acute bronchitis was making my ears play tricks on me, I ignored what I thought was an aural hallucination and sat down to eat my cheesy omelet and bacon.

But I heard it again. Then again. And again and again, until the cacophony of the imaginary bell ringing twice every second became too much to bear. I went to the door and opened it just to assure myself that it was all in my head.

It wasn’t.

Standing there in the dark, illuminated only by white Christmas lights still strung around the neighbors’ treehouse, was Citizen Jim.

“At your service, ma’am,” he said, and bowed.

When he stood to his full height, I saw that he was wearing what appeared to be a tuxedo. His black shoes were buffed to a glass-like shine and covered by white spats. I was especially intrigued by the pair of lumpy white gloves he must have struggled to pull on over his hairy, ape-like hands.

“What do you want?”

“Here I am, going out of my way to visit a poor, lonely spinster on a dark, stormy night and all you can say is, ‘What do you want?’ God, you’re horrible.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” I said.  “I’m hungry and tired and ready to go to bed, so.”

“You better wake up, Sister Kristy, and break out the fine china and Egyptian cotton linens! You can’t be treating the Duke and Duchess the same way you treat me when they show up here, you know.”

Ah. Everything was becoming a little clearer to me, despite the fact that I still had no idea what the hell Citizen Jim was up to. Just knowing he was up to anything at all was enough to feel waves of dread cresting in my brain—but not the good kind (read: the Waves of Dread who have a new single coming out on 31 January).

“Is that what the tuxedo’s all about?” I asked, looking him up and down.

“This is no goddamn tuxedo, you low-class barbarian! It’s a butler’s uniform!” he said, beating his chest with his fists and then wincing. “Ow! Look here! The Duke and Duchess should be getting my invitation and their tickets in a couple of days, and—”

I looked up, wide-eyed. “Who?”

” Mr. and Mrs. Sussex—Harry and Meghan!  They’re coming here on a cruise ship from Belfast, so we don’t have long to get ready for them.”

“There’s no cruise ship that’ll leave from Belfast in January, you idiot!”

“The hell you say! I bought the tickets online at a website called jaysusbuckywhatafeckindeal dot com and had them sent directly to the royal couple! And I told their highnesses they could stay with you while Harry looks for a job and Meghan tries to land a new acting gig.”

“I hope you let them know they’ll be sleeping on the futon,” I said.

“You mean you won’t let them use your bed for a week so they can get the hell out of England and make a better life for themselves and their child? What kind of pro-immigration, migrant-supporting anti-American socialist are you, anyway?”

“The kind who needs her sleep every night so she can go to work at a real job Monday through Friday,” I said. “And don’t they have a baby? You know how much my cat hates children. I’m sorry, but I just can’t agree to have them here for more than a day.”

Citizen Jim grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me into the living room, then flung me into one of my comfy armchairs. “That’s where I come in! In this uniform! I’ll be your butler!”

“Oh, that’s just the kind of butler I need—a Jeeves who’s more dangerously stupid than Bertie Wooster. Look, I hate to sound like a Fox News talking point, but on second thought: I don’t think I want to get involved with offering safe haven to these Royal Family Refugees.”

“You’re joking, right?” Citizen Jim asked.

“Hell no, I’m not joking! The last thing we need is for this country to start welcoming freeloaders from the upper classes inside our borders. Remember what happened when we let the Shah of Iran seek asylum? Fifty-two hostages! Held for 444 days! Remember that?”

“That was forty years ago!”

“I don’t care of it was eighty years ago—if Harry and Meghan show up, and then I’m sure Prince Andrew won’t be far behind. If he comes, you know his dingbat ex-wife will follow, and she’ll probably drag those horse-faced daughters along!” I said. “And what if members of other royal families decide to flee their countries—we could be invaded by royal Swedes and Norwegians and Belgians before we even know it’s happening. We can’t risk all that, no matter how unchristian it seems.”

“Will you listen to yourself? Do you not have a heart in your chest? Or is it just a lump of coal frozen inside a ball of ice? It’s going to be hard enough and dangerous enough for the Duke and Duchess to cross the Irish Sea so they can get on that cruise ship!”

“I’m no world traveler, but I have a feeling they could probably fly from Liverpool to Belfast in under an hour,” I said.

“Pah! You don’t know shit about shit! You’d bloody well better stock your pantry with plenty of Marmite and prawn flavored crisps before Harry and Megs and Baby Archie get here, or my plans’ll be for nothing.”

I knew I couldn’t try to reason with Citizen Jim, as that’s always a futile endeavor. So I just decided to go with the flow until our visit reached its natural conclusion.

“You’re right, Precious Lamb. I need to get on the ball. But will you just tell me what the goal is?”

“Once they get here, we’ll make them sign non-disclosure agreements. That’ll make us look legit. I’ll spy on them every day while you got to work, then you’ll write the tell-all about living with royals and it’ll sell a zillion copies. We can’t lose on this one!”

“Wow, you really put a lot of thought into this, I can tell,” I said, trying to lead him toward the door by his elbow.

He yanked his elbow from my cupped palm but continued toward the door. “Well, someone’s gotta put some thought into the things that go on around here since your little raisin brain isn’t exactly equipped for anything harder than sleeping and liking Patton Oswalt’s tweets,” he said. “So don’t say I ain’t never done nothing for you!”

I clutched my chest and assured him: “Oh, I would never say that! You’re my best friend in the world!”

“And another thing,” said Citizen Jim, turning in the doorway and squinting at me. “When the royals get here, don’t call me Citizen Jim. That’s not a good name for a butler. So you call me Lord Gorblimey of Crikey Downs, okay? I need to sound a little fancier.”

“Right-o!”

“I mean it!” he said.

“Pip pip!” I called out as he made his way down the sidewalk.

“You better not mess things up!” he yelled.

“Cheerio!” I shouted and slammed the door.

Then it was back to my blasted eggs and soggy bacon.