Citizen Kane Pt. 03

WOLFMAN Kane fetched up in Paris during the French Revolution and was immediately caught up in those terrible times. He listened to the revolutionaries, saw their poverty and despair, understood that soon a new terror would arrive. But the aristocracy had been dispatched and in a small cell at the grim Fortress Conciergerie, Marie Antoinette awaited her fate. She had lived a life of extreme luxury at Versailles but her husband had gone to the scaffold and soon she, too, would die.

Kane decided he must see the doomed Queen of France. In his room at a small hotel nearby, he lay naked on his bed and stroked his erection. He wondered whether everything he had heard about her was true. She had trampled on the starving peasants, turned her back on their cries for bread. "Let them eat cake," she said. Or so the rumors went. Probably untrue. Most gossip was. He didn't much care.

Although he appeared to be human, he had no human attributes. He stroked and fondled his testes. They were the size of hen's eggs and made a pleasing slapping sound when he rode a woman. They produced abnormal loads of sperm. He wondered what Marie Antoinette wore in prison, what she ate. She was only 37 and as his thoughts wandered, his lust flared.

The tides of history flung restless Kane on many shores, witness to great wars, famine, flood and bloodshed. Death was constantly by his side. He had seen legions fall. In France in 1793, his father had still been alive, the equivalent of a colonel in the dog soldiers of the planet Cerberus. Kane occasionally flashed him a message but their relationship was mainly distant. He had never known his mother, an earthling taken as a slave during a raid on Planet Earth. Kane's vast panorama, inhabiting parallel worlds in time and space, was limitless. Nearly 250 years ahead, lay utter destruction. When the industrial-military machine teamed up with enough mad dictators, the planet would be reduced to dust. Only cockroaches and a handful of pygmies would survive in what remained of the Amazon Forest. Kane thought about this and shrugged. Long before then, he would take his leave from this demented place. But for now, the last Queen of France occupied his thoughts.

He had followed her trial for treason, watched the mob bay for blood. She was even accused of incest with her young son, but he discounted that as hate-filled fantasy. In prison she was registered simply as the Widow Capet. Her dungeon measured just 15 square metres, the walls covered by an old cloth stained by humidity and blood. A narrow window at ground level let in a pale light from the October day. She had a camp bed, a couple of chairs and a bidet. Her jailers, rough voyeurs, gave her no privacy. They watched when she used the bidet. She tried to ignore them.

On October 14, two days before the date of her execution, a priest clattered down the stone steps to the cell to hear the queen's last confession. He dismissed jailer Bastien who retreated to a side room. The deception was all too easy. And now Kane, wearing the cassock and cowl of a religious order, stood before Marie Antoinette. He kissed her pale hand and in a low voice asked: "Does Your Majesty wish to take communion?" She nodded and dropped to her knees. Kane whispered: "First I will annoint your breast with holy oil." Without hesitation, she opened her gown and allowed her voluptuous breasts to fall out. Kane's mouth was dry. Blood throbbed at his temples. He dipped his fingers in a vessel of warm oil and flicked it at her breasts. He rolled her erect nipples between finger and thumb and as she gasped in surprise, he squeezed and tugged them.

His cassock fell open, exposing his throbbing erection. Marie Antoinette saw the purple cockhead leaking pre-cum, offered no resistance as Kane put his hands on her head and forced her to take him in her mouth. He groaned and said: "My rod and staff will comfort you, my child."

She was shocked to the core. She had never performed fellatio, not with her husband, Louis XVI, not with her lovers. Kane felt his sap rising as he pumped her mouth. Veins stood out on his iron shaft. He took her hand and made her cup his balls and they bucked as he groaned and emptied down her throat. She retched and puked his semen on the floor. He licked spunk from her chin, stroked her blonde hair, soon to be shorn for the guillotine. "There, there," he said. "God is good."

That night jailer Bastien got drunk. He sang obscene songs outside the Queen's cell and masturbated through the bars.

The following day, at 11am, the prison gate opened and the Widow Capet walked out.

Held by a long rope by the executioner, Marie Antoinette climbed into the dingy cart that was to bring her to the scaffold at the Place de la Revolution. The Queen sat straight in the cart. Her cheeks were flushed with fever, her eyes were bloodshot and her coarsely-cut hair poked out from her bonnet.

A simple white cotton dress over a black petticoat had replaced the powder blue silks and satins of Versailles.

Mist swirled around Paris. A huge jeering crowd lined the route. Kane, mingling with the drunken mob, felt a pang of admiration for the Queen's courage and composure. As the cart rumbled by, he smelt her fear.

She stepped unaided from the cart and slowly ascended the steps to the scaffold. It was two weeks before her 38th birthday.