The Mask of The Sparkly Pink Death
The sparkly pink death had long spread throughout the county, coating inhabitants with spangles and suffering. No pestilence had ever been so fatal or so dazzling. First came the sequined pox marks, the velvet top hats, the throats coated in stars. Then pink cloaks sprouted from the shoulders of the victims, followed by an insatiable urge to belt out “Rose’s Turn” or “Anything Goes” in a key high enough to pierce eardrums. This last symptom ensured those visited by the pink death would be locked far from the company of others. There they enacted their final death scenes, unobserved, but worthy of applause nonetheless.
Princess Bianca Tinsletta paid no heed to the sparkly pink death. As the population of her region was halved and halved again, she blocked her ears to the screeching cries of “If I Were a Rich Man” rising from the streets. Instead of tending to the spangled and dying, she invited a covert of her wealthiest friends to stay with her in the stylish chateau she called home. The chateau featured a pool, well-stocked wine cellar and the skeleton of a T-Rex that the princess had previously purchased on eBay for $97,000. A tall, iron wall encircled the property to kept the glittery, suffering populace away.
“There’s no point in worrying,” said the princess.
She and her friends ordered delivery from Amazon and planned to wait out the sparkly pink death. They promised not to speak of tap dancing, tinsel, or rosy disco balls. When citizens of the town sent emails begging for doctors, spirit gum and vocal coaches, the princess yawned and deleted the messages.
“Let’s have a party!” she said to her friends. “But, no singing, dancing or monologuing. And definitely no pink!”
The party was magnificent, with cocktails gilded in gold, ice sculptures shaped like expensive cars, and elephants serving sushi. (Do not ask how Princess Bianca Tinsletta managed to pull that last one off, just know that it was very impressive.) The guests gorged themselves and drank more than they’d ever drank before. They avoided theatrical behavoir as best they could, but it can be difficult when one is drunk. As the night dragged on, they began to hear something. It was almost as if the faint strains of “Comedy Tonight” could be heard coming from within the chateau walls.
Then a figure appeared, cloaked in velvet and wearing a pink mask that sparkled so brightly none could look upon it. Somehow the mask whispered of large, glimmering theaters. The music from the walls grew louder.
Something for everyone:
A comedy tonight!”
The princess’s friends gasped in terror and disgust.
“Who are you?” demanded Princess Bianca Tinsletta. “And how dare you wear such a tasteless ensemble to my party? Tell me your name so I can drag you on Twitter.”
The intruder gave no answer, except to pull a hooked cane out from beneath its cloak. It hooked the cane around the neck of the princess, yanking her close. Puffs of glitter emerged from the holes in the intruder’s mask and the princess began coughing and choking. She grabbed at her throat, then fell to the ground, her body devoid of breath.
Panic gripped the chateau, but it did not bother the masked intruder. Twirling its cane around and around, the figure began performing a soft shoe routine. One by one, the princess’s friends began to sprout sequined pox marks, grow velvet top hats atop their heads, scream out the lyrics to Cole Porter songs, and form a giant kickline. Then they died. (The elephants were okay.)
The figure walked through the sparkling swamp of fallen bodies, continuing to dance. Its shape began to fade around the edges. Somewhere far away, in another world, stage lights began to dim and an orchestra packed up their instruments.
“Should have answered your emails,” said the intruder, before disappearing completely.