Sometimes tranquillity is merely a fairy tale

ONCE upon a time, there existed a kingdom called Ameripax that was ruled by an emperor known as Sweet George II, who wanted nothing but peace, at least in the immediate vicinity.

Members of his royal staff were forced to whisper when they spoke and to wear soft, doeskin slippers when they walked in order to maintain the almost mystical aura of tranquillity. Anyone who violated it was quietly drowned in platitudes and never heard from again.

That is not to say, however, that Sweet George was necessarily in favor of tranquillity outside of his kingdom. He had his royal Secretary of Settlements, which was his term for war, send their armies, known as noise abaters, to inferior distant kingdoms, which they were to tranquilize by whatever means necessary, and to take whatever of value the inferiors possessed to cover the costs of the noise abatement program.

No news of their efforts, however, was to reach George, who existed in a sweet-smelling, bird-twittering world far removed from disquieting events. He was awakened each day with prayers, heroic poems of ancient battles and bits of uplifting thoughts by a staff of women who whispered cheerful news to him regarding the weather, the garden and the smiles of children too young to form opinions.

The Good News Mamas, as they were known, ended each session by telling Sweet George that whatever he did was right and that he was wonderful and well loved by everyone. Only once in anyone’s memory was a sour note sounded, when his dog ran away, but it was quickly replaced with a puppy called Condolee. It was, of course, a puppy that yapped its love and agreement wherever George went.

The area around the palace, known as the Red Zone, was patrolled by carolers of sedation who assured the populace that George II was doing all he could for them, especially if they happened to be rich, and that Settlements abroad were being handled in ways that brought peace and silence to the inferior alien lands. Public commentators, the only ones allowed to raise their voices, reported each day how grand George was and how dangerous were those who felt otherwise.

This so pleased the Red Zonees that they added an extra prayer to their daily routine, thanking Gold, the Ameripax god, for Sweet George II and the happiness that he had brought them. Any display of coffins returning from overseas was banned, because, as George once remarked, they were not happy boxes. Since no bad news was allowed to reach them, the masses were content to believe that no one had been hurt.

Then one day there was a shout at the royal gate.

“What’s that?” George demanded, shocked by the sudden loudness.

“No doubt a crazed liberal from the Blue Zone,” an aide assured him. “He will be taken care of, Your Lordship.”

Then, a sharp cry.

“Probably a wild dog, Sire. We shall have it caught and its tongue removed.”

But then there was an anguished shout, and George realized his name was being called. He looked out a window.

“It’s a woman,” he said. “What does the poor thing want?”

“A maniacal mother from the Feminist Zone,” the aide said. “We’ll have her tongue ...”

“No!” Sweet George declared, one finger in the air, after the manner of Nero and Napoleon, whom he numbered among his heroes. “Mothers are never to be harmed in Ameripax. Mothers are to be loved. They are life givers, son.” Tears filled his eyes as he recited Mother Speech No. 4 from memory. “What does that lovely mama want?”

“Well, Sire,” the aide said hesitantly, “she, er, believes her son was killed in one of our foreign settlements and is demanding answers from you.”

“Then send out my Secretary of Reconfiguration and have him mouth the condensed version of Compassion Statement No. 32 about how our heart goes out to her, her son is a hero in the cause of peace, we must be on guard against inferior alien forces that threaten our nation and we are grateful for her sacrifice. We’ll help her adopt if she wants another boy. God knows, there are enough orphans out there.”

“She’s heard all of that, Sire. She calls it politibabble and wants answers from you personally.”

George’s expression darkened from sweet purity to hateful red. His aide backed away, fearing an explosion of murderous rage.

“I see her,” Sweet George said, his words freezing into ice crystals, “as an atheistic, sexually deviated, life hating, anti-Ameripax traitor. Is that not so?”

“Exactly, Sire. Disruptive and in violation of the Serenity Act.” Condolee yapped agreement.

Sweet George was about to have her severely punished when he noticed that others were gathering at the gate. More voices were rising. Soon, the crowd was in the hundreds and then the thousands as word spread that the so-called settlement abroad was, in actuality, war, and that their sons and daughters were dying for the emperor’s false tranquillity. They began peppering him with truth and it hurt.

Fearing for his tranquillity, Sweet George, hands covering his ears, was seen running toward the forest, away from the thousands that had become millions. The gates of the palace were breached, music filled the air, and Ameripax was never the same.

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Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He can be reached at al.martinez@latimes.com.