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The Sun King

 Robin Wyatt Dunn
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 Robin Wyatt Dunn
The Sun King
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Robin Wyatt Dunn writes and teaches in Los Angeles. He's online at robindunn.com
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The Sun King
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[by email]

Dear Monica,

I know you are a slut and this is okay; it’s modern life. Maybe more than that, just life. It’s okay, I understand. I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want to be your fuckbuddy. I want to be your boyfriend. I know that the times have so swiftly outrun me since George Bush and then Obama and their buddies raped and murdered America, but part of me still has some hope that the term retains some meaning. What boyfriend means is that we’re lovers, which means that when we’re not fucking, we talk about stuff, and occasionally do things together, like eat, or go somewhere. We return each other’s calls. We don’t fuck other people. We get to know one another.

I know this is difficult. Modern life is still capitalist; you’re young and want to remain on the open market, waiting for the highest bidder. There’s still many chances for you to become the designated #4 mistress of one millionaire or another, and you should consider those options.

I suppose what I mean when I say that you are a slut is that you are fucking that rich asshole and not me. The term has very little to do with your promiscuity, but rather your choice of partner. I know that picking the sexy artist with no money over the boring millionaire is a difficult decision; you have your children to think of, or something. But you don’t have any children. And if you spawn with that man, you will only produce assholes. The world already has enough of those.

I fear for the world; for this generation. But I suppose my fears are irrelevant; you can only hear it as me whining. The thing is, you see, I’ve lost respect for you. I thought your interest in me stemmed from some political vantage point wherein you could see how far we’ve fallen as a society, you were willing to risk material rewards for rewards of a more intangible variety; mutual understanding, frisson, adventure. But I was mistaken. You are interested more in money than in personality, just like every other woman who ever existed.

So I can see that what besets me is not a modern dilemma but rather an ancient one. The class structure, product of ancient wars and revolutions and sexual politicking, has in me and you merely two more victims in an endless series. You can see only status and so can I, we are determined by it, condemned to die modern people in this vise older than history.

Your children with him will be ugly; I can sense this. With my Spidey Sense. You will be a boring person. I won’t want to talk to you any more. You will be included in my mental list of failures and horrid evil twerps.

I know that your desire for adventure was not disingenuous, you simply did not understand that true adventure is predicated on an abandonment of the safety line. You just wanted some travel and sex with the distant millionaire’s string attached. I see that now. That is okay.

You still have nice legs and you still have pretty eyes, and your accent is sexy. But your conscience is non-existent. You are a mental midget, at least in terms of moral reasoning. You are unimaginative. You will be lonely.

Abandon the millionaire. Ask yourself if material comforts and jet-setting are really the key to your long-term happiness or whether there is something more intangible at work; that William Burroughs was right and that happiness depends not on success but on failure, not on achievement, but on the struggle, and that with me your struggle would be greater, and that you would therefore be happier. In his terms, then, you see, your material success with him would lead ipso facto, to your unhappiness, and, with me, your lack of wealth would make you happy. God bless William S. Burroughs.

Call me when you’ve broken up with him.

Roger

[by email]

Dear Roger,

I am writing this response to your offensive letter because I feel the need to disabuse you from some fantasies you seem to carry around in your head.

You are an interesting man and I respect you and I respect your art; but we are not lovers. We do not have a sexual relationship; probably we will never have one. If you cannot understand that women are attracted to power and that I as a woman am powerless over that fact then I cannot help you. This is how the world is; I did not invent it.

I do wish that you were rich. And I know this a common wish; that I could find the perfect man. I know He does not exist. I know we all have our flaws.

I thought that you were interesting, that’s why we talked for so long, why I let whatever our intimacy was, and there was some, I admit that, that’s why it came into being, because you interested me. But precisely because you’ve become so possessive and so sniveling about it all I see that your appeal is limited; you’re not mature enough for me, you lack an experience with the world that any man needs, whatever his background or wealth.

I hope you can understand this. I did hope that with you I might discover a companion I could trust, but I can see that you are a man of limited imagination; of limited intellect. I can see that this would have been a bad idea all along.

I don’t care at all whether you think I’m a slut or not; those terms are irrelevant to me. Also I think you know that they’re irrelevant to me and that you’re only trying to get a rise out of me. Well, that won’t work. I’m a modern woman and can sleep with who I please and you should see that it is precisely this my freedom that you find enticing; it is my modernity that you find enticing; without it, I should be less interesting. I hope you are able to see past this short-sightedness and try to preserve our friendship.

I am glad that you like my legs.

Monica

[by email]

Monica,

Likely there is no purpose to my reply at this point; likely it can only serve to widen the gulf between us and to deepen the grave I dig for myself, but either because of some ineradicable masochism in my character or because I still harbor some hope, I am writing it anyway. Obviously both are true. I am a glutton for punishment and I still hope.

Tell me I have some reason to!

Love,

Roger

[by email]

Dear Roger,

You don’t.

Love,

Monica

[ by text message]

[Monica]

Why do you expect me to be your salvation? i am a woman; I do not save.

What is it in you that makes you want that?

What can I save you from, yourself? I can’t save you from that.

I can only be your friend.

If you will have me.

I am only a woman and I do not know the things you know but I know that knowing them will not help you.

[Roger]

You're right, you’re only a woman.

[Monica]

Yes. I am.

[Roger]

You were powerless before his powerful moneybags.

[Monica]

But if you had his money you’d be just as annoying. And if he were as broke as you he’d be just as charming.

[Roger]

No he wouldn’t be.

[Monica]

I think he would.

[Roger]

Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m annoying and he’s charming. So, which would you rather be, annoyed or charmed?

[Monica]

What?

[Roger]

I think you know which you’d prefer.

[Monica]

I don’t like being annoyed, goddamn it Roger.

[Roger]

No, but you love it.

[Monica]

No.

[Roger]

Come have dinner with me tomorrow night.

[Monica]

Fine.

[by text message]

[Roger]

I loved last night.

[Monica]

Hmph.

[Roger]

You didn’t love it?

[Monica]

Hmph.

[Roger]

You loved it.

[Monica]

I know you loved it.

[Roger]

Yes, I did.

[Monica]

Doesn’t change anything.

[Roger]

No?

[Monica]

No.

[Roger]

Why not?

[Monica]

You’re still broke.

[Roger]

So are you.

[Monica]

But I’m the woman.

[Roger]

So you’re in favor of harems then, is what you’re saying. You want to be in the harem.

[Monica]

I’m a practical girl.

[Roger]

Quite impractical, really. You’ll give him your youth, and if you’re “lucky” you’ll have his kid, and you’ll have his child support, but you’ll be miserable beyond belief. You might even kill yourself. At the very least, your kid will be totally fucked up.

[Monica]

Goodbye.

[Roger]

Goodbye.

1 day later

[by email]

Dear Roger,

Do you want to come over?

Monica

[by email]

Dear Monica,

Be naked when I arrive.

Roger

3 weeks later.

[by text message]

[Monica]

I’m going to Italy with him. He says he loves me.

[Roger]

You don’t write. You don’t call. Well, I’m sure he says he does. Why wouldn’t he love you?

[Monica]

Will you be happy for me?

[Roger]

Sure, why not?

[Monica]

You’re not, though.

[Roger]

If I thought you would be with him, I would be happy for you, actually.

[Monica]

I just wanted to tell you why I’ll be out of touch.

[Roger]

Well, it’s goodbye, really. If you do this. If you do this you’ll be like I said, just another harem girl.

[Monica]

That’s not what it is.

[Roger]

Close enough. You’re one of, what? Ten?

[Monica]

Not any more.

[Roger]

Whatever he said, he’s lying. But you can’t see that now. Goodbye.

95 days later

[by text message]

[Monica]

Roger?

[Roger]

Who’s that?

[Monica]

It’s monica, I got a new phone.

[Roger]

Why?

[Monica]

I lost the old one.

[Roger]

Oh really?

[Monica]

How are you?

[Roger]

So this is your new harem phone?

[Monica]

I understand if you don’t want to talk to me.

[Roger]

Why are you texting me?

[Monica]

Just to see how you are.

[Roger]

That’s not the reason.

[Monica]

Yes it is.

[Roger]

Brains!

[Monica]

What?

[Roger]

Braiiiiiiiins!

[Monica]

I see. I’m a zombie.

[Roger]

It’s even worse that you realize it.

[Monica]

He helps me.

[Roger]

Braiiiiiins!

[Monica]

Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay. Let me know if you want to see me; I’ll be in town.

[Roger]

We’re not friends. We’re not anything.

[Monica]

We’re something.

[Roger]

Hardly anything.

[Monica]

Anyway, you have my number.

250 days later

[by text message]

[Monica]

I’m pregnant! Hahahahaha!

840 days later

[by text message]

[Monica]

Roger?

550 days later

[by email]

Dear Roger,

I know you’ll probably just delete this email. But you’re the only person left I can trust. Please, if you get this message, just call me, okay? Please.

It’s [number]

Monica

2 days later

[by text message]

[Roger]

Hi Monica

[Monica]

Roger?

[Roger]

Yes.

[Monica]

Omigod! How are you?

[Roger]

Good. I’m good.

[Monica]

What’s new with you?

[Roger]

What’s new with you Monica.

[Monica]

I need a new life.

[Roger]

Don’t like the one you’ve got?

[Monica]

No.

[Roger]

Want me to come rescue you from the harem? Haha

[Monica]

We’re done. We’ve been done.

[Roger]

So how does it feel?

[Monica]

Great. It feels fantastic.

[Roger]

How will you recover?

[Monica]

I’ll be fine.

[Roger]

Come see me if you want. Just to talk. I’m not going to to reply to another text.

2 days later.

[by email]

Dear Monica,

Despite everything I still have some respect for you. That is why I am writing this email to you. It’s a free country and we all get to find out what the consequences of our actions are. I know you’re not Adolf Hitler and you’re not a murderer; you’re just a stupid fucking harem girl.

But the funny part is you’re a harem girl with a brain; I guess you turned it off. In fact I know you did, like he had a switch installed or something, but it’s a switch only you can use, and you choose to use it. But I know you know you can only blame yourself. Probably you were the variety, weren’t you? The intellectual whore amidst the stupid ones.

Anyway:

It’s funny too he has you in his pyramid scheme now. Besides the fact that it’s basically his amusing and evil method for recovering the child support from you by selling you health drinks you’ll never be able to re-sell, they’ll just rot in your garage—besides that, it’s just you using that switch again. I guess I should be glad he didn’t hook you on heroin or something.

As you know, I’m getting married next month. And no, I don’t want you to meet my fiancee.

If I were a better person this happiness I’ve found would make me forgive you, would let bygones be bygones. Maybe it will. But not yet.

Goodbye, Monica. Please don’t come visit again. It’s too weird.

Good luck,

Roger

1 hour later.

[by text message]

{Monica]

Yur gonna fucking DIEE!!!!!!!!

[Roger]

That just went into the NSA archives, you dumb slut. Send me something like that again and I’ll report it to the police.

[Monica]

I know where you live.

[Roger]

He did hook you on drugs, didn’t he.

[Monica]

He says he’s the Sun King now.

[Roger]

Ha. He’s high on crack cocaine. Why not go get high with him? Bring your toddler along!

[Monica]

I miss you.

[Roger]

You need help.

122 days later.

[by text message]

[Monica]

Heeeey, studly.

[Roger]

Hey, it’s my favorite crackwhore.

[Monica]

I want you to come over.

[Roger]

Fuck you.

[Monica]

That’s the idea.

[Roger]

Just tell Mr. Sun King you promise to move more Acai Berry units this month and he might let you blow him.

[Monica]

It’s good for your digestion!

[Roger]

Yes it is.

[Monica]

I need you. I’m going to kill myself.

[Roger]

Are you really?

[Monica]

I’m going to.

[Roger]

I don’t believe you.

[Monica]

I’ve got these pills.

[Roger]

What kind of pills.

[Monica]

Reds, blues, greens, whole fucking rainbow.

[Roger]

You should take them.

[Monica]

You want me to?

[Roger]

Yes.

[Monica]

You asshole!

[Roger]

Take them. Take them all.

[Monica]

I’ll always love you.

[Roger]

I’ll always love you too Monica. More when you’re dead. I promise I’ll take care of your kid, okay. Just write a little message saying that you leave your kid to me. Stephanie and I will take care of him. Better than in the Sun King’s clutches.

[Monica]

The NSA is reading all this, you know.

[Roger]

You think they give a shit about a suicidal crackwhore?

[Monica]

I don’t smoke crack.

[Roger]

Now’s your chance.

[Monica]

I just took some of them.

[Roger]

Take more.

[Monica]

You want to watch? We could have a video conversation. You could watch me die.

[Roger]

Why would I want to watch that.

[Monica]

Don’t you want to see me one last time?

[Roger]

No.

[Monica]

I took more of them.

[Roger]

Good.

[Monica]

I’m sorry, Roger.

[Roger]

Yeah. Heaven’s a nice place, don’t worry. You’ll meet Jesus.

[Monica]

You’re such an asshole.

[Roger]

I never said I wasn’t. I’m just an asshole with a conscience. The world will be a better place without you.

[Monica]

Oh fuck.

[Roger]

Just text this: “My son Charlie I leave to my good friend Roger; I know he’ll take care of him. Goodbye old world! Goodbye acai berries!”

[Monica]

That’s not funny.

[Roger]

Yes it is. Now text that to me, you fucking crackwhore.

[Monica]

I leave my son Charlie to my friend Roger, the asshole. Let him raise this fucked up little kid.

[Roger]

Thank you, Monica. That’s the bravest thing you ever did.

[phone off]

[by text message]

[The Sun King]

Roger. This is the Sun King.

[Roger]

Hey asshole. Are you here at the fucking funeral?

[The Sun King]

I already left. I just wanted to get a look at the man who’s going to be raising my bastard for me.

[Roger]

I’m going to adopt him.

[The Sun King]

Good. I don’t want him till he’s grown.

[Roger]

Give him a job then will you?

[The Sun King]

In procurement.

[Roger]

Going back to Versailles?

[The Sun King]

Yes. Back to Manhattan.

[Roger]

Bastille Day is coming, motherfucker.

[The Sun King]

I wish you luck.

160 days later

[by text message]

[The Sun King]

How’s my little bastard?

[Roger]

Are you referring to me or to your son?

[The Sun King]

Ha, that’s very funny. To my bastard son.

[Roger]

Oh, just fattening him up for the slaughter.

[The Sun King]

You’ll be compensated, if you wish.

[Roger]

Name your price.

[The Sun King]

I think that’s my line!

[Roger]

Your kidneys, sauteed, with a nice Chianti?

[The Sun King]

Chianti is very unfashionable.

[Roger]

Yet regicide is coming back.

[The Sun King]

Leave the boy in your garden next week. I’m going to come for a visit.

[Roger]

What?

[The Sun King]

By the tomatoes.

[Roger]

Fuck you motherfucker.

[The Sun King]

You’ll prefer this to the alternative.

[phone off]

5 days later

[ by text messsage]

[Roger]

I couldn’t see you.

[The Sun King]

I was watching from orbit.

[Roger]

Wow, I just wet my pants.

[The Sun King]

Scary, isn’t it?

[Roger]

I think I just peed my panties.

[The Sun King]

He has my eyes, my little bastard.

[Roger]

What a shame you’ll never be able to see them for real.

[The Sun King]

Monica was the only one that escaped, did you know? This is why the boy interests me.

[Roger]

And yet she didn’t really escape, did she.

[The Sun King]

Well, she found the ultimate escape.

[Roger]

With a little help from her friends.

[The Sun King]

Ha ha ha.

[Roger]

Oh, you know about that, do you? I forgot, you know everything. What am I thinking right now?

[The Sun King]

You’re thinking it’s in your best interests to help me.

[Roger]

Ha ha ha!

[The Sun King]

Well, it is. And you know it.

[Roger]

Yes. Massa is big and strong.

[The Sun King]

Roger, I’m going to be in town on business, shortly before the holiday. See that you keep my bastard healthy, hmm?

[Roger]

Why don’t you take some of Monica’s medicine, you fucking slimeball?

[phone off]

70 days later

[ by text messsage]

[Roger]

I’m calling the police.

[The Sun King]

That wouldn’t be very smart, would it.

[Roger]

How did you get inside my house.

[The Sun King]

It’s as though he has your eyes. I don’t like his eyes. But he feels good in my arms.

[Roger]

You leave him alone! I’m calling cops now.

[The Sun King]

It won’t do you any good.

[Roger]

We’ll see about that.

6 hours later.

[ by text messsage]

[Roger]

They think I’m a nutcase. You deleted his birth records. They think i’m a lunatic. How did you do that?

[The Sun King]

Money is a tool. But a more powerful tool is the will. Tell me, Roger, would you like to come work for me?

[Roger]

Am I allowed to come armed?

[The Sun King]

Ha ha, I don’t think security is your strong suit. No, I could use a consultant. On fatherhood.

[Roger]

What’s the pay?

[The Sun King]

It’s generous.

[Roger]

I’m going to kill you, Louis.

[The Sun King]

That’s not my name.

[Roger]

Tendrillar Louis the XIV

[The Sun King]

Shut up

[Roger]

And everyone’s gonna say, why, why, he was as such a nice man. And I’m gonna wear your fucking head around my neck.

[The Sun King]

Your adolescent fantasies aren’t very amusing. Answer me, before I change my mind. Do you want a job?

[Roger]

Yes.

[The Sun King]

You’ll serve me?

[Roger]

With my knife in my pocket.

[The Sun King]

Just so long as it’s a cheap Swiss Army Knife affair. Human skin is actually quite tough to cut, did you know?

[phone off]

36 hours later

[ by text messsage]

[Roger]

I managed to find a record of you, Louis. My wife is over the moon.

[The Sun King]

It’s a shame you turned down my generous offer.

[Roger]

You’re in Africa.

[The Sun King]

That’s true.

[Roger]

The government doesn’t like that you’re there.

[The Sun King]

Governments are temporary.

[Roger]

Not as temporary as you. Your “religious customs” seem to have struck the locals as unsavory. Not the only unsavory thing about you. But here’s the thing, Louis. It is gonna be Bastile Day after all. And it’s gonna be a whole lot of niggers this time, climbing over your gates. But there’s gonna be one white face among them, see? That’s the face you’re gonna want to fire at. Because that’s gonna be me.

[The Sun King]

You do have an active imagination.

[Roger]

My friend in the State Department keeps more accurate records than the LAPD. The LAPD is real forgetful. I guess you knew that.

[The Sun King]

Why not forget me too, Roger? You have a wife. Have a son of your own.

[Roger]

We can’t. Maybe I should just watch on satellite, hmm? Maybe Google will give me a live feed to watch the raid on your compound.

[The Sun King]

Each division of humanity has its purpose, Roger. Yours is to be nanny.

[Roger]

Yours is as a necklace.

[phone off]

Also by Robin Wyatt Dunn

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Dublin-born Anglo-Irish poet, who took up verse as a child in rural Ireland and is now a rampant word addict. He has published five collections of original poetry since his first collection in 2001, and recently published a selected poetry collection....read more He actually owns a red fez covered in mirrors and jewels called his writing crown.
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Poem of the Week

Darker Than It Was Before

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To build a fire

Author of the Week

Dublin-born Anglo-Irish poet, who took up verse as a child in rural Ireland and is now a rampant word addict. He has published five collections of original poetry since his first collection in 2001, and recently published a selected poetry collection....read more He actually owns a red fez covered in mirrors and jewels called his writing crown.
Vincent S. Coster
0 likes | 0 followers | 0 creations