Pie Me a River!

Fecklenburg enters Rupprecht's chambers.

'It is I, sir, your chamberlain, bringing a courier with news of the latest battles!' he cries.

Prince Rupprecht, to his chamberlain's relief, seems to be commodeless and fully entrousered.

The prince looks up, startled.

'Blinking flip, chamberlain!' he cries. 'What possible reason could you have for interrupting my studies?' 

'News from the front!' Fecklenburg hesitates, turning to the courier. 'What's your name again?'

'It's Rupprecht!' says the prince.
'Not your name, sire, his'.
'But I don’t know his name, Fecklenburg: which is why you should announce it'.
'My name is Colonel Xavier Ritter von Nittedaun, my prince', says the officer.

'No, no, no!' cries Rupprecht, 'don't tell me, tell him,' he says, pointing at Feckenburg. 'He's the one who has to introduce you so that I know who you are'. 

In the garden of good arguments against absolutist forms of government, Rupprecht was undoubtedly the largest and most swollen melon.

'My I introduce', says the chamberlain, 'Ritter Nittedaun, fresh from General Barry-Eylund's headquarters'.

The prince's eyes narrow. 'It's bad news, isn't it', he says.

The Ritter shifts nervously. 'How can you tell, my lord?' he asks.

'There are three reasons', says the Prince holding up his fingers.

'I think, sire, that that is only two fingers' says Fecklenburg.

Rupprecht nods. 'These aren't the reasons; these two fingers are just how I feel about being interrupted by you. As to the reasons, well, first, it's always bad news; second, Fecklenburg has strategically placed you as an obstacle to impede me getting at him; and third, it's always bad news'.

'My lord, I think that you repeated one of them', says the Ritter.

'Look at my fingers, Ritter', says the Prince. 'Look at my fingers'.

Rupprecht sighs. 'Well, let's have it then'. 

The courier takes despatches from his pocket, clears his throat, and then explains the long and lamentable course of the battle of Falkenhelle.

' ... and so', finishes the Ritter, 'our army has withdrawn in good order, but may, even now, be menaced by the forces of Zenta'. He finishes. There is a long silence. The colonel peers at the Prince. 'Is he dead ...'

'Chicken pie!' coughs Fecklenburg.

'Spread the gravy!' cries Rupprecht, waking up. 'Where? Who?'

'You may have rested your eyes a moment, sire' says the chamberlain.

'No, no! Not I! There was a defeat. And some death. Terrible! You see these - tears: a river of tears from my eyes!' the prince points.

'Are you sure, sire, that that isn't just perspiration from the enormous pie that you consumed for your lunch?'

'No! No! No!' cries the prince vehemently. 'Well, yes! Probably. Somewhat. But mixed in with the perspiration are tears of anguish. A military defeat!' Rupprecht winces. 'I'm numb'.

The Ritter nods. 'Indeed, sir - the awful losses'.

'No. no. no. I think that my buttocks have gone to sleep. Anyway, there must be something that we can do to arrest our decline as a military power?'

Fecklenburg nods. 'My lord, I await your suggestions - you intimated when we entered that you were studying?'

'Yes, chamberlain', replies Rupprecht. 'A book on strategy!' He fishes under his chair for a while and then flourishes a volume triumphantly.

The prince is not noted for his enthusiasm for reading. In the main, his excursions into literature begin and end with the works of the writer Sven von Hassell, one of the pen names of Jonathan Swift, and the tales of his exploits on the Lilliputian eastern front.

Fecklenburg examines the book and sighs. 'Sire. This is not a book on strategy - it is, rather, a book on strudel'.

Rupprecht snorts. 'Strategy, strudels, what's the difference - they both begin with an "s"'.

'Sire', replies Feckenburg, 'I think that the differences might quickly become apparent if one planned to rely upon delicious flaky pastry as the means to align disparate military actions towards a common objective, amidst the chaos and friction that defines the nature of war. But then', he gestures to the book, 'I cannot claim to be an expert on strudel'.

'Exactly!' snaps Rupprecht. 'You're not! And I think that there is a solution to our problems through the use of a pie!'

'Sire, what is it?' asks the Ritter.

The prince frowns. 'Well, it's a baked dish consisting of a filling enclosed by pastry, or sometimes with pastry only on the top or bottom'.

'No, my lord - the plan', says the chamberlain.

Rupprecht snorts in exasperation. 'So I must rescue our country from defeat by coming up with a solution? Fine! I can do it without any problem at all by applying my many talents! Am I the cleverest ruler in the region? Probably not. Am I the handsomest? Maybe not. Am I militarily the most experienced? No. But ….' Rupprecht pauses. 'However ...' He trails off.

'Well put, sir', says Fecklenburg . 'I shall act on your plan immediately!'

'You will?' says the prince. 'Did I actually say something planny?'

'You alluded, sire, elliptically, and no doubt intentionally, to a brilliant plan'.

'I did?'

'Why, yes. And may I commend you on the flexibility you have shown in your approach to pies, given that you have stretched your interests to embrace rolled pastry made from very thin dough wrapped around a filling and baked until crisp and flaky.'

'A what a what?' asks the Prince.

'Strudel, sire - you have literally just read a book on the topic'.

'Have I?' Rupprecht nods his head sagely. 'Well, Fecklenburg, I am not monogamous in my pie attachments. I would describe myself as "pie curious'".

'Anyways, now that my genius has delivered a plan to you, it's time for more government activity. Bring me my commode!'

'Are you sure that this is really the time ...' asks the Ritter.

'All movements are improvements, colonel'.

Fecklenburg sighs. 'I don't think that that's what they meant, my lord'.