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Wanted: Prince for Wildly Implausible Fuckfest

You scoot your chair back from the table, rubbing an eye as you take a moment to consider this glaring bright room and the truly absurd opportunity it offers. Oh, your summer job hunt had started typically enough: the movie theater, a few pizza joints, that doggie daycare place, any number of perfectly normal and perfectly dull prospects for the admittedly normal and plainly dull twenty-something you are. And respectably, it wasn't until the seventh or eighth "No" that you got bored and began to cast your net into less...conventional waters.

Well, your old high school wasn't interested in you for a "Summer Principal", The UN already has a Swedish Ambassador (who is actually from Sweden) and NASA politely offered that even if the note signed by "The President" attesting to your one thousand hours of pilot-in-command time in jet aircraft was authentic, they were not currently hiring astronauts for a mission to Deep Space Nine and also Deep Space Nine doesn't exist. Which is why when you received a letter telling you you were exactly what they were looking for, and would you please come down to Such and Such address for orientation? it was something of a shock.

It's with a mixture of helpless curiosity and growing apprehension that you look down at the fat stack of documents on the table in front of you, "PRINCELY ORIENTATION" helpfully typed out on its cover. You were already at the address before you actually remembered which gag application this had been for. And frankly, even then you only sort of remember. Some kind of amusement park? Or themed restaurant? Or...something? It's definitely some sort of Renaissance Faire-y acting type gig. You could probably remember more clearly if this room wasn't so fucking bright; it's making your head spin. You give your eyes another rub before swallowing and opening up your orientation guide.

Oh fuck. If your head wasn't spinning before, it sure as hell was now. You told these people you had years of experience horseback riding? That you were deeply versed in all manner of period knowledge? That....that you won the fucking silver medal in fencing?! You moan, letting your forehead drop dramatically onto the carefully bullet-pointed list of all your outrageous lies. Maybe if you had told them you won the bronze instead, you wouldn't be in this mortifying situation.

Abruptly, however, you sit back up. Hey, what's all this wailing and gnashing of teeth?! Fake it 'til you make it, right? A whole summer of peacocking around, waving a fake sword for cute actresses in more low-cut than strictly period gowns? That beats the shit out of tearing ticket stubs. The worst that can happen is they take one look at you and send you home, after all. And who knows, maybe you'll be great! You've ridden other things, like buses and such; you can probably ride a horse. And Mrs Belton said you were "Very Audible" as the Frog in the third grade play! And so it is with renewed vigor that you flip past your so-called fictitious resume and begin looking over what it is they actually want you to do.

The answer is....well, not as clear as you thought it would be. Most of the usual fol-de-rol stuffed into new employee orientation is nowhere to be seen. They don't seem to care what your Social is, and no mention yet about not hiding in the bathrooms to smoke pot. Instead, almost all of the orientation guide is made up of short outlines for various Princely archetypes, all of whom apparently vie for the hand of an actress playing the Princess. So a sort of nightly show, maybe? Cheer for your section's Prince while the kitchen churns out your order of huge, super dry turkey legs? You feel like you're getting it now.

Well, it looks like they're so impressed with your qualifications (that you're increasingly forgetting are utterly made up) that they're even letting you pick your character. Squinting a bit in the unrelentingly fluorescent light of the room, you begin reading over all your options.

What's next?

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