A Satirical Tale of Tiny Tyrants and Trembling Servants
By Christopher Moore
I. The Age of Reverence
In the Celestial Kingdom of Han-Yi, during the Age When No One Dared to Look the Emperor in the Eye, two beings held more power than all the ministers, generals, and concubines combined.
They were not warriors.
They were not scholars.
They were Shih Tzus.
Pa Ke, the elder, wore a coat of gold and white, trimmed like royal silk, and carried himself with the dignity of a retired general. His companion, Fengmi, the younger and smaller, looked like a gremlin that had won the lottery—sweet-faced when watched, demonic when unsupervised. Together they ruled the Forbidden Pavilion with paws of fluff and iron.
II. The Emperor’s Divine Delusion
The Emperor adored them as if they were heavenly messengers sent by the gods to personally lick his feet. He called them his “Celestial Companions.”
In the Emperor’s eyes, they could do no wrong. If they barked, he claimed they were singing. If they chewed a sandal, he declared they were sharpening their wisdom teeth.
“Such loyal hearts,” the Emperor would sigh, stroking Pa Ke’s head while servants bowed so low their spines audibly protested. “They understand me better than any of you.”
Of course they did. The dogs didn’t talk back.
III. The Servants’ Curse
When the Emperor retired for his midday nap, the true empire revealed itself.
Fengmi—the smaller one with the look of perpetual judgment—would immediately trot over to the nearest silk curtain and mark his territory like a conquering warlord. Pa Ke, too refined for such vulgarity, preferred to demonstrate dominance by planting himself directly atop freshly laundered robes.
The servants, forbidden to speak of such crimes, scrambled in silence.
They swapped out curtains faster than spies burning evidence. They polished marble floors still warm from the latest “imperial offering.” They even composed haikus about obedience to distract themselves from the smell.
One servant once dared whisper, “Perhaps the dogs could be… trained?”
The senior eunuch stared at him with pity. “So could you,” he said, and the man was reassigned to mosquito-net duty in the imperial latrines.
IV. The Royal Performance
Every evening, when the Emperor returned, Pa Ke and Fengmi transformed into angels. They sat perfectly still, heads tilted, eyes wide and shimmering with innocence. Their halos were metaphorical, but the servants swore they could see them.
“Look how they wait for me,” said the Emperor, mistaking manipulation for loyalty.
The dogs wagged their tails in synchronized splendor while the servants hid behind columns, still smelling faintly of dog urine and despair.
At banquets, the Emperor would place bits of roasted duck into their mouths while scholars debated philosophy. Pa Ke would chew loudly. Fengmi would stare down the ministers as if daring them to object. None ever did.
After all, to criticize the Emperor’s dogs was to criticize the Emperor’s judgment—an act punishable by immediate unemployment, exile, or sudden spontaneous disappearance.
V. The Secret Rebellion
In the servants’ quarters, rebellion brewed not in swords but in sighs. They told ghost stories about the “Hairy Demons of Heaven’s Gate.” Some swore Pa Ke once knocked over a priceless vase and barked so convincingly at the nearest servant that the poor man confessed to doing it himself.
Others spoke of Fengmi’s midnight raids, how he’d sneak into the kitchen and bite through bags of rice, scattering grain like political corruption—everywhere, and impossible to clean up without losing something vital.
Yet every morning, the Emperor would smile upon the chaos.
“My beloved children are playful,” he’d say. “A happy palace is a messy one.”
The servants smiled, too—because showing teeth was safer than showing truth.
VI. The Lesson of the Tiny Tyrants
Years passed. Ministers came and went. Dynasties of eunuchs rose and fell. But Pa Ke and Fengmi endured—unchallenged, untrained, and unstoppable. The Emperor aged into myth; the dogs aged into legend.
Scholars later debated the meaning of this period, calling it The Era of the Unhousetrained Mandate. Some claimed it symbolized divine forgiveness. Others said it reflected how rulers often confuse affection with virtue.
But those who cleaned the marble floors knew the real truth:
When those at the top refuse to see the mess beneath them, the ones holding the mop carry the kingdom’s stink.
And somewhere in the afterlife, Pa Ke and Fengmi are probably still peeing on silk curtains—while angels quietly scrub and pretend not to notice.
-The Gun Loving Hippie Dad … Who Fixes Stuff
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