The King Tingaling Painting

The King Tingaling Painting

The King Tingaling Painting

Many, many flavions ago on a planet super far away, and much farther than any Star Wars planet…

“Rejected! Again!” said the tall, eccentric-looking, grey-haired man with long thin fingers, who held a letter in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. He kicked away his easel to the corner of his art studio, and then shook the letter in the face of his son, a lanky boy with a dandruff problem. “Every art college on Painters’ Planet has now rejected you! Are you happy? You’ve brought great shame upon the von Virst family name, the most respected family of painters ever to have existed! You have no right to call yourself a von Virst. The shame, the shame of it all!”

“Mr Salvador von Virst! Sir!” A dwarf-like person who was most likely a dwarf, came scurrying into the art studio holding a telegram – a bit of paper with a message on it. “Sir, King Tingaling from the Royal Globe has sent you an urgent telegram.”

“What does it say?” Salvador von Virst flicked bits of dried paint onto his scowling son.

“He urgently commissions you, the planet’s greatest living artist, to paint a portrait of him.”

“Well, I’m not really in the right frame of mind to paint another one of my glorious portraits, because of this worthless imbecile.” said Salvador von Virst pointing at his son. “However, we cannot refuse a commission from the Royal Globe, and certainly not from King Tingaling – The Laughing King. We must make haste! The Royal Globe and its vain monarchs are our main source of income. Without their portraits we’d cease to be, and without our portraits they’d die - of humility probably.”

Salvador von Virst turned to his son who had just been about to sneak away. “You! You second-rate creature that has besmirched the von Virst name, you go to your studio and stay there until you have completed a thousand paintings! If even one painting is deemed inadequate, then you shall be disowned and sent to the Paint by Numbers School of Faux Art, where you will teach the nursery painters. Now vanish from my sight!” Salvador’s son lowered his head, then scratched it as he slunk away. “And do something about your dandruff too!”

*

On the Royal Globe, inside King Tingaling’s magnificently grand and ostentatious palace, in one of the many official portrait rooms, (the one with red velvety carpet and gold leafed walls), King Tingaling was perched upon an antique couch, his many folds of flab stretching his clothes and filling up the couch. The bubbly-looking King Tingaling was dressed as lavishly as his palace was decorated. Knee-length socks, a velvet red and blue suit, a frilly white shirt and a ceremonial gown as well as a jewel-studded crown of course.

Salvador von Virst, with palette in hand, painted sweeping strokes onto a canvas, as King Tingaling made another adjustment. “Your Majesty, please, we cannot have you fidgeting.”

“I shall do as I jolly well please, and I shan’t tell you again.” King Tingaling reminded Salvador, whilst chuckling in a rather evil manner.

“Very well.” Salvador continued to paint, occasionally chewing on the end of his brush.

Once again King Tingaling changed position, this time facing the other way.

“Please, Your Majesty!”

“The royal buttocks needed a change. Now get on with it, you lowlife painter!” King Tingaling chuckled again.

Salvador’s face got redder than the carpet, and if this had been a cartoon, steam would’ve come out of his ears. “First it’s that good-for-nothing junior, and now this twit. I’ll show him!” Salvador grumbled through gritted teeth. He soldiered on, and kept painting.

*

Some time later, with King Tingaling now laid down upon the couch, Salvador von Virst added the final brushstroke. “Voila!”

“Servants!” King Tingaling shouted. Four smartly dressed servants came rushing in. “Lift moi up to my royal feet immediately!” The four obedient servants heaved King Tingaling up and onto his feet, then helped him walk around to see the newly finished portrait. If Salvador’s face had been as red as the carpet, then King Tingaling’s face got so red that calling it red wouldn’t do it justice.

“WHAT!” King Tingaling shouted so loud that the room shook.

“I’m quite proud of it, perhaps one of my finer pieces. Allow me to walk you through it, you chunky oaf. You see that whale-sized creature holding that wad of cash? Well that’s you. Then there’s your favorite pig Buttercup, just there. And that’s a pineapple sticking up your derriere!”

“GUARDS!” A slew of spear carrying, colorfully dressed guards came rushing in. “Seize him at once! We’re having an artist hunt right now!”

*

In the gold countryside, where the trees had gold leaves and the grass was also gold, Salvador von Virst was shackled, his face black and blue, with a cut lip and swollen eyes. He was surrounded by hounds, hunters, huntsmen and various monarchs on very large horses. King Tingaling was on the largest horse – (a horse that was breathing long, labored breaths and whose legs occasionally wobbled). The monarchs, hunters and huntsmen all carried rifles.

“It’s been a while since our last artist hunt, has it not?” King Tingaling chuckled. There was a mumbling of agreement from the other monarchs.

“This is how we shall proceed as it has been such an awfully long time. Lowlife painter! For that slanderous abomination you have created of moi, we shall give you a two-minute head start, at which point we shall come after you with the hounds. Let us begin!”

One of the huntsmen blew a whistle and Salvador von Virst started to run away, huffing and puffing, the iron shackles rubbing against his skin – grinding into it until they bled. He took baby steps, walking as though he was in a three-legged race. He fell over face first into some wet mud.

“How long has it been?” King Tingaling turned to the huntsman with the whistle.

“About five seconds, Your Majesty.”

“That’s enough. Release the hounds!” King Tingaling ordered. The hounds were released and set upon Salvador von Virst with the many monarchs following on horseback. Horrid, ear-piercing screams came out of Salvador’s mouth.

“Get the hounds off him.”

The huntsmen regained control of their hounds. Salvador, bitten all over and even more bloodied, looked up at King Tingaling.

King Tingaling trotted over on his horse. “There’s four more days of this.” King Tingaling laughed.

*

Four days later and still out on the hunt, Salvador von Virst’s body now resembled a raggedy pile of minced beef.

“I think he’s dead now, Your Majesty,” the huntsman said.

“Splendid! That was rather enjoyable,” said King Tingaling, who then turned to a general from the Royal Globe Alliance, the military arm of the Royal Globe. “General, annihilate Painters’ Planet immediately.”