“I need you, my son, to take this message I am about to bestow upon you into the future, into times unknown, and protect it for all it’s worth. My son, what I am about to give you may very well transform the way we live, you and I.”
King Franzijol’iliki gave his boy a crumpled paper and cupped his hands, staring into his eyes.
“It is yours now, my boy. Take it, and never forget its words! Now I must leave, for I must gather our might against the invading Gargan’tueen Terrordactyles, the Dreamwashers of Cruoria, and the horror of the Zertian Bullpeople. Gods save us.”
The boy watched his father close the door behind him, standing in one of the last sunrays his kingdom would know, for they were about to find themselves drenched in the fog of war. He took the paper from his cupped palms and un-crumpled it. He spread it out, and smoothed it over his bed. The boy took it in the light and read his father’s last message, the sum of his peaceful and prosperous 245 year reign:
WE’RE SO FUCKKKEEDDDD