An Inside Look at the Crowning of a New King

“We must express our darker purpose. Know that we have divided our kingdom in three, and it is our intent to confer it on younger strengths, that we may unburden’d crawl towards the afterlife. Our son of Studdard, and you, our no less loving son of Ginuwine-tell me my sons-since now we will divest us of rule-which of you shall we say does love us most?”

Studdard stepped forward and, kneeling before Jackson, began to sing, “Long ago, and oh so far away, I fell in love with you….” Jackson threw a twinkie on the floor in front of him. Studdard looked up, eyes wide, grabbed the twinkie and ran to the back of the marble sanctum and devoured the tasty meat.

Ginuwine, beckoned by a wave from Jackson, strode forward. He threw his arms to his side and began to wail: “sitting her flossing, peeping your steelo, just once if I have the chance, the things I will do to you, you and your body, every single portion, send chills up and down your spine, juices flowing down your thigh! If you’re horny let’s do it. Ride it my pony-” and once more Jackson cut off the chanteur mid-verse. He shuddered, threw up some pus onto the floor, and continued.

“Now our joy. Although the last, not the least. Son of Timberlake, what can you say to draw a third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.”

Justin Timberlake revealed himself and, staring at his dead king’s feet, replied, “Nothing, my lord.”

Jackson shot up and shouted at the top of his rotting lungs, “Nothing shall come of nothing, speak again!”

Timberlake responded, “Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave my heart into my mouth: I love your majesty according to my bond; nor more nor less.” Jackson’s, his face on the verge of exploding, removed his solitary, bespeckled glove and threw it in Timberlake’s face.

“I don’t wanna see your face, you better disappear.” Timberlake remained at the foot of his throne. “Beat it!” Jackson shouted. Timberlake, tears streaming from his face, ran out of the hall.

Jackson sat back down at his throne and thrust his head into his hands, “I loved her most…so be my grave my heart…The sway, revenue, execution of the rest, Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm, this coronet part betwixt you.” Michael removed his platinum Thriller LP from his coffin, broke it in two, and handed a half each to Studdard and Ginuwine.

Hiding his tears, the undead Jackson began to speak for the last time. “It was easy. It was like counting up to three. Singing simple melodies, that’s how easy love could have been!” He lied back down in his coffin and placed the splintered fragments of the lid above him.

The coven began once more to chant. No mere mortal can resist, the evil of the thriller. No mere mortal can resist, the evil of the thriller…

At that the sound of choked-up tears ceased, and the casket stopped moving.

A pause filled the air, as Prince, trying and failing to hide his jealousy and spite, addressed Ginuwine and Studdard, the new Princes of Pop, “I know you what you are. I would prefer him to a better place.” With that, Prince turned off and ran out of the hall, his sobs echoing through the room.

The rest of the assembly remained in their circle, mouth agape, waiting for their new leaders or Big Willy to make the first move.

Mr Smith was the first to speak: “Aight, aight. I’m about to freak this full out the king of the hill. I’m about to freak this. Yeah…yeah…” He daintily waved his hand, almost perfectly emulating the king who had just passed.

Ginuwine was the first to take the hint, and yelled to the rest of the robed throng, “Go seek the traitor Prince, pinion him like a thief, bring him before us.” It was not three minutes before they had Prince back, bound before them.

“Ingrateful fox! ‘tis he!” Studdard pointed and screamed, bobbing up and down with the grace and poise a rabid manatee.

Smith walked up to the prisoner, and, cracking his knuckles, said to him, “Lay on back, I’m bout to freak this.”

Prince began to shake violently in the seat in which he’d been bound, and yelled “By the kind gods, ‘tis most ignobly done!” But Big Willy was having none of it.

“What, you want me to freak this?! Fellows, hold the chair. Upon these eyes of thine I’ll set my foot.”

With that, dear reader, your faithful reporter had to take his leave. Since Jackson was reborn as undead, this writer was plagued with a truly terrible combination of the manifestations of his dismay: not only did his bowels lose their typical fortitude, but he gained a terrible urge to dance away his anxieties (and thus give himself away) that the dynasty of Pop would soon be plagued by tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.