Pie Hard!

'Aaagh! Aaagh!' squawks Prince Rupprecht. 'Defeat! Defeat!''
'Are you alright, sir!' says his Chamberlain, Leopold von Fecklenburg, as Rupprecht gets redder and redder, even more spittle than usual projecting from his blubbery lips. Fecklenburg's report on the campaign in Schrote lies strewn across the floor.
'Sound the alarm!' continues Rupprecht, his voice reaching a worrying pitch. 'Set condition to "Shafted!"
'Calm yourself, my lord! You'll strain something!'

'Doom! Gloom! Defeat! Trouncing! Subjugation! Aaaaaaeeeeeeeoooooo ... oh'. With that last squeak, Rupprecht slumps forward, suddenly silent.

There is a shocked moment of quiet.

'Are you alright, sir?' asks Fecklenburg with a note in his voice that might be concern but which also seems to contain at least a smattering of hope.

'Is he dead?' Fecklenburg asks one of guards, the ratio between concern and optimism tilting rather more towards the latter than might be thought appropriate in a loyal minister.

A sudden whining wheeze seeps slowly out of Rupprecht's mouth. 

'Quick!' shouts Fecklenburg to the guards, 'put him in the recovery position!'

The guards prop the prince in front of his dinner table, place a glass of claret in his hand, and a pie in the other. The chamberlain waves some mustard under Rupprecht's nose.

With a start, Rupprecht regains his senses - in truth, there isn't really that much to regain.

'My lord, are you well?' says Fecklenburg.

Rupprecht sighs heavily. 'Guards, put on the lantern'. One of his grenadiers lights a tinted lantern. The room is suddenly bathed in a rose-coloured light.

'There', says the prince. 'I have set Condition Red. It's time to start taking things seriously'.
Fecklenburg nods. He agrees, even if, strictly speaking, the time for Rupprecht to take things seriously really should have begun about ten years ago. 'What are your orders, my prince', he says.
'Genocide!' says Rupprecht evenly. ' I want all of the Fenwickians dead!' Fecklenburg considers this. 'Massacring them all, sir? I'm not really sure that we have a reason'.
'This is the age of reason: make something up!'
'But genocide is quite a considerable effort sire. Its very time consuming. And your diary is quite busy next week'.
'Is it?'
'Yes - you know, there's the luncheon tomorrow, and the tour of the orphanage. And there's the debauchery on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And the opera'.
'I must have some gap in my diary to exterminate our enemies, Fecklenburg!'
'Well, I suppose there's Friday between 10 and 11'.
'But I can't wipe out the entire population of Fenwick in an hour!'
'No sir. Sadly not. So, it's a clever and wonderful idea, but you just don't have enough time. Maybe next year?'
'Bah. Well, pencil it in for next year. And don't let me forget!'
'Never, sire, never! But, in the interim, perhaps we might begin to think of a coherent strategy: dare I say some clever diplomacy and political cunning?'

'I prefer genocide, Fecklenburg'.

'I know, sir: but there are the timetabling problems - and also, of course, the political disasters that it would entail. I would enjoin you, my lord, to think really, really hard and perhaps come up with a solution that involved more diplomatic sophistication and less, ah, Hunnic brutality.

Rupprecht taps his pie, philosophically. 'Fine, fine. Well, Fecklenberg, at least no one knows formally of our involvement in Schrote. I mean, it's not like Ziegler gave away Nabstrian and Bachscuttel involvement by, I don't know, declaring victory in a public statement or something'.
'Well, sir' nods Fecklenberg, 'about that ...'