Their job is done. They have scattered Mean Queen's eggs to the furthest point they could reach by car and now, the Palace is back to normal, whatever normal is for the Palace. The Jihad Party Boys dance day and night to the Eunuch's oboe and Drag Queen's gyrating hips. They have turned to the most primeval form of Jihad Party Boy.
Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. The bellies are now thinned of baby fat. Their beards are course and they have only the desire of some ancient ancestor. Drag Queen flips the rabbit fur butt flosser at them, letting their nostrils catch its scent from the long days of dancing since the last full moon. The heady aroma of Drag Queen's rabbit fur butt flosser has captivated them. Has put them in a trance that is just as primitive as when the first Jihad Party Boy covered his shoulders with a blanket that had tassels at the end, and tied a hat box to his head. They ready themselves for the hunt and the kill.
Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. Grunt-smack-smack-kill. All day, all night while the minions of the Palace dispersed Mean Queen's eggs. Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. It goes on now in steady rhythmic beat.
The storm is ready and laying wait at sea to come inland. To come and wake the eggs of Mean Queen, to send the Jihad Party Boys on a murderous quest. Grunt-smack-smack-grunt. Grunt-smack-smack-grunt.
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