"Split Personalities" by Elisabeth A. Wilhelm

She was named Muffin when she was born, by her adoring and grossly overweight mother, who, according to the nanny, shrieked out for muffins whilst in labor. Muffin hated her name, preferring to be named after a non-foodstuff, like Coral, so Coral she was to her friends.

Her daddy ruled the quiet kingdom of Knob, spending most of his time tormenting the court jester.

Coral sat down at the footsteps leading up to the throne, her head in her hands, supremely bored. Somewhere in the back of her head, the conversation between her daddy and the pug-faced court jester registered.

“Oh George, really. You must try juggling those flaming braziers. I heard its all the rage in the next kingdom over.”

“Su’, my house burned down ‘hen I was a wee lad. Me and fire ‘on’t get along very well.”

The king guffawed, “Nonsense! I order you to!”

So, Coral’s eyes glazed over watching the jester struggling to keep three braziers aloft at once, much to the amusement of her dad, who kicked his stubby legs and punched into the air with his chubby fists, squealing like a kid. Coral happened to be conveniently sitting next to one of the king’s guards whose massive blue and pink (it was mom’s idea) shield rested on the ground beside her.

“Oh, this is glorious!” giggled the king as one of the wall hangings caught fire.

Coral thudded her head against the shield.

The wall hanging happened to be also the place where the ladies-in-waiting congregated, all wearing expensive and highly flammable silk trappings that would have looked better on horses or elephants. The jester had curled into a fetal position in the corner of the room and proceeded to rock and whimper whereas the women reacted as they would to anything moving and unfamiliar. The herd instinct kicked in at half a dozen women stampeded to the other side of the throne room, the last one trailing smoke from her gigantic headdress.

Thud thud thud thud.

The king was still laughing, the women still shrieking hysterically like dying geese, the jester wetting himself when Coral got up, pulled the sword out of the dozing guard’s scabbard, marched over to the still-flaming tapestry, hacked it down, and stomped on it in her skirts, picturing her dad’s face in the ashes as she did.

Coral forgot that her medicine reacts badly with alcohol as she went to the local pub. She ended up dancing on the tables in her scantily short skirts, stomping the table, imagining every knot in the wood, every dark wet ring from the mugs was her father’s face. Acquaintances assured her that she acted like a complete idiot. It got worse from there. After Coral fell or was pulled off the table, she didn’t remember, she collapsed at the bar, her face warm in split pea soup. She wasn’t lucid when she became Boda.

A beefy man sat next to Boda, his legs spread over two stools, ordering a chicken. Boda looked at him, only to locate the source of the horrific smell. In his profile, many would have considered him to be devilishly handsome, and he seemed to know it. After several beers, he started to regale the tales of how he fought off thirty warriors, with no sword, in the middle of the night, to defend his dying captain, on a three-legged horse.  In the process of his tall tale, the man would use sweeping gestures up and down with his arms, the waves of stench hitting Boda every time. She tapped him on the shoulder.

“And then the slave women I freed came up to me with eyes---“

“Excuse me.”

The man turns gruffly. “Yes?” Seeing her to be a female, he adds, “Miss?”

“Keep your arms down, please.”

The man’s face twisted. “What am I just too much for you?” He started to laugh with his drinking buddies.

Boda shook her head. She wasn’t sure if it was out of disgust or to clear her airways. “Yes, your pits are too much for me. When was the last time you washed?”

“Washed?” said he, incredulous.

“Yes, you know,” her voice turned deadly sarcastic, “involving a rag and clean water and removal of all your clothes.”

“Uh.” He raised his arm unwittingly to scratch his head.

Another wave of nausea hit Boda. She wrinkled her nose and tried not to wretch. “Please, I prefer to still have a sense of smell when I leave.”

His voice turned ugly. “Hey missy, don’t you go telling me what to do. Go home and feed the kids.”

Boda’s voice sounded ominous. “Kids?”

The man stared stupidly at her.

Smack!