Queens Don't || #ONC2022

1 || QUEENS DON'T COMMIT CRIMES

"Shhh," I gently chastised, pressing my index finger to my lips.

My best friend, Philomena, clapped a hand over to mouth to muffle her soft giggles. While she had a problem containing her snickers in high pressure situations, I couldn't calm my rapid heartbeat. Didn't matter how many deep breaths I took, my racing heart was going to kill me one day.

I just prayed it would keep me alive through the night as Phil and I quietly sat on a concrete cobblestone sidewalk with our backs against a gigantic eleven-tiered water fountain. Every so often I felt small drops of cool water hit my neck since my long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

"You ready?" I whispered, casting a nervous glance at Phil who simply nodded.

We both peeked around to make sure we were alone before our eyes settled on the prize standing before us a few feet away. A sword in the stone. Seriously. For some odd reason, the people of the Moneres Islands completely believed the King Arthur myth. The guy that could pull the super ancient and incredibly weathered sword from an equally beaten down boulder would become king of the country.

Other than being treated like royalty and living in a gigantic castle, the ruler actually wouldn't have any political power. He lived the life of a beauty pageant winner, traveling around the world, giving inspiring speeches, making special appearances, and attending charity events while proudly representing the country of eleven islands.

Two soldiers spent the day standing by the sword and watched men of all ages comically yank on the handle. According to the very sexist law dating back to when women were simply commodities, the sword was off limits to the female population. But one ruler in the fifteenth or sixteenth century decided girls ten and younger could have a go, and the dumbass law hasn't been touched since.

Of course, this hasn't stopped millions of women – okay maybe thousands – from trying to get their hands on the ancient blade of bullshit. Sometimes the soldiers could be seduced or bribed. But most of the time, women took their chances when the guards left the post for the evening.

A heavy duty chain surrounded the square area holding the famed tourist attraction. As if the rusty metal links could keep two drunk American girls from either crawling underneath it or hurdling over it.

The country's security measures are flawless, I thought sarcastically in my inebriated state.

Phil and I scanned the area one more time before pushing off the fountain wall and dashing toward the sword in the stone. Because my best friend was significantly taller than me, she chose to jump over the waist-high chain. Except she was extraordinarily clumsy when intoxicated.

She skidded to a full stop and attempted to hop over the barrier like the damn Easter bunny. Despite the look of determination and a loud grunt, she failed spectacularly as the links grazed her knees, catching her off guard and pitching her forward.

To avoid face planting, Phil twisted her body and fell on her right arm with loud high pitched giggles. Her snickers worsened as she tried to disentangle her feet from the thick chain.

Tears of hilarity filled my eyes as I slowly crawled on my hands and knees, ducking my head to avoid the swinging links. As much as I wanted to snap a photo of my friend's amazing mishap, time wasn't on our side. So, I watched her pull her long legs away from the chain for a few extra seconds like a real creeper to make sure the image was forever imprinted in my mind.

"Shhh," Phil shushed loudly, standing up and inspecting her arm for damage.

"Shhh," I parroted, dusting off small pebbles from my jeans, and examined our challenge.