Worple the Cherubic rocked back and forth on the river bank, his eyes fixed on the ancient Entry Arch. Any time now, he told himself, and he’d be entering the Realm as the King’s Grin. Ever since he popped out of his mother’s womb whistling and farting the National Opera while exhibiting the toothless joy of the congenitally vacuous, he had been told this was his destiny. He had been patient, spending his youth at the age specific smile Eisteddfods, winning some and only failing to place when suffering from chronic abortive driplonzenges that caused his smiles to snark at inopportune moments.
A fairy from HR floated condescendingly through the arch and headed for Worple. ‘Are you here for the Grin?’
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