COSMOSpolitan

The King of All Cosmos is a finicky man all over, from the strategic slant of his goatee to the elegant gold ring on his ankle. He knows he is perfection personified (not that he is a person, really – he is larger than life in literal ways, so he might well be a deity already), and because of this he knows he deserves no less. Perfection must be in the cookies Mother bakes, in the greeting cards sent by fans, in the production of his games and the accompanying soundtrack, in the glimmer of the planets in the sky, and in the Katamari that the Prince rolls.

So when the miniscule fool wastes ten minutes of the King's precious time trying to roll up something that at the very least should span more than his majesty's left foot, and fails miserably by creating a ball only matching his big toe in length, he wastes no time in making the Prince feel dejected. Royal Rainbow, and he makes the ride as bumpy as he can by churning the colors in his mouth and spitting it out like really bad aftershave (why, yes, the hairs on his stunning cleft chin aren't always so elegantly formed without reason, but nobody really needs to know that). The Prince's little green body wobbles around on Home Planet rather sadly, tired from the day's rolling (which involved many teddy bears and unfortunate mice), but the King doesn't feel any pity.

There aren't any rainbows in his eyes when he forces a stare of enormous concentration and magnitude and, well, the power of all cosmos on this reedy little boy that he cannot bear to think will someday inherit the throne.

"We deserve," He intones with the dry whir of a disco record, "Much better than this."

Prodding the unfortunate ball with one gargantuan finger, he frowns down as if gravity has tugged on his (gorgeous) lips with both hands. "Bland. Boring. Miniscule and useless, like yourself. Lacking all of our perfection and grace. We are insulted very deeply, yes."

The little prince shakes his head and flaps like a blade of grass, desperate and degraded. He thumps to his knees and quivers. The king's eyes are hard as obsidian moon rocks, his orange nose is bright and sharp and filled with disdain. "And so. What will be your punishment, o pimple-sized prince?"

With flailing arms the prince gestures towards the Katamari, still tight in the king's grip.

"What's that? You want to give us a foot massage?"

The funny flashing red knob moves from side to side as the prince shakes his head and makes ado-over motion with his reedy little arms.

"Oh really? You want to use the Katamari and make up for all of it? You don't want to get zapped?"

His stare is hard and imposing. The prince leaps and jumps and indicates rolling, and the king sighs.

"If you truly insist, but we were so hoping you would want to try again, or else suffer our disowning you. But a foot massage. For our majesty, that will do."

Mother offers the King a fresh batch later that day, and he takes the strawberry tarts in delicately gloved fingers, the other hand happily poking and prodding the stars and planets, wondering if all the earth fans notice. He is finicky, and maybe that is what most would consider a bad trait, but anything one can use to describe the king is a virtue. He is perfection, and everything around him must reflect that too, from the gentle spring-blue of his kimono-type top to the pastry he is crunching in his grand teeth to the soles of his feet covered in purple leggings where a little prince rolls and rolls, working hard, and the Katamari with all its funny little bumps is truly an exquisite massager.


A/N: Plotless. ButI just wanted to try something fun, and the King makes a great subject. D

As usual, any comments are greatly appreciated (even a simple 'weird'.)