The little corporal jogs up and down the Champs Elysees.
"L'Empereur est restless", interjects the Dauphin Fillon. Irritated, the emperor retorts in his usual Sarkostic self: "IMBECILE"
Fillon recedes to the line of the horses and Toulon cannons. "The emperor sure has some temper", he mutters amongst the order of the Paladins, as their armoured horses neigh.
The emperor in all his morning sweat reaches his inner sanctum. He immerses himself in his bath tub. He leans his sinewy right hand over the tub and skews his head askance in exact semblance of David's "La Mort de Marat".
The Dauphin was right. The little corporal is indeed restless and depressed.
"Am I too short?", he whispers unto himself.
Right then, David's Oath of the Horatii flips into his mind and he rises in such vigour and squeals, "Je suis L'Empereur. Je suis La France. Je suis Nicholeon Sarkoparte"
The Emperor hasn't been this perturbed since African scum and yob were running riot in les banlieues torching Renault cars. But on this day, the Emperor is having his first rendez-vous with America's first African American President.
The African thing doesn't really bother the Emperor this time. He shrugs it off in his ancestral style, "Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite". <Surely his alter ego must have conquered Hungary two centuries ago>
He saunters around his bath, wrapped in linen. He kicks a candlestick angrily, "Putain!"
He ambles towards the wall. His hands still wet, he does some writing on the wall.
"Mmm, je suis 5 7. Carla est 5 9. Mes chaussures, deux. Avec mes chaussures, Carla et moi, 5 9"
More calculations follow suit. But when the Emperor writes 5 11 against Michelle, he pauses for a while. He lets a sigh out of his misery.
Right then he realises he's running out of time. With a predictable, "Mon Dieu", the emperor rushes to his tuxedo chamber.
Mme Carla de Bruniharnais is already dressed up and ready for the occasion. The emperor quickly pans her head to bottom. Seeing she is not standing on heeled souliers, he is overjoyed. As usual, ils embrassent. The overjoyed emperor prolongs the "embrasser". Who else understands his Majesty better than her.
The Dauphin enters the scene, again. The emperor is briefed about the daily state of affairs as he boards the frigate Le petit Chevalier setting sail for the G20.
The Dauphin debriefs the corporal about the severe deterioration of the standard of living of the bougeois, la petite bourgeois and la proletariat.
"I'll walk out of the G20 if I don't get what I want", he fumes.
The Dauphin then reminds the emperor of the possibility of Lord Brown bringing up Turkey and the EU. "That would be the height of imbecility", concludes Le Dauphin.
The very mention of height sends the emperor into a moulin rouge rage.
He slaps the Dauphin and scoffs, "IMBECILE"
The beleaguered dauphin takes leave. Before taking leave he asks the Emperor about quelling any dissent dans les rues de Paris.
"Some of our people don't even have bread to eat", he notes humbly.
"I know, Francois, and I promise, when I get back to Paris from G20, all I will have will be music to our people's ears"
"Also, Sego et les royales have been accusing you of ruining the economy from its economic height during Chirac"
This sends the little corporal into a St. Vitus Dance. If only Le dauphin knew when to talk of height.....
The emperor hurls his glass of champagne towards le dauphin, "Cochon de la cote d'Azur, tu es un imbecile, IMBECILE, if they don't have bread, let them eat cake, va te faire encu!er, cochon, gros et gras!"
Such was the anger of the corporal that he spoke to none till the sails washed ashore the english channel, the first of its kind since Horatio kicked some other corporal bum.
"What's wrong, mon cherie?", goes Carla, seeking to break the gloom.
"Carla, J'ai un question, peux tu faire me repondre, avec la verite?"
"Of course, mon cherie!"
"How tall are your heels?"
"I gave up wearing them, mon cherie. It was part of our wedding oath, remember?"
"Oui, Oui, j'oubliais........., mais, I was thinking if I could borrow some of them. Mais, on deuxieme thought, NO!"
"D'accord, let's do it next time, I'll fetch my heels, you fetch the robes from Les Invalides"
"Oui, it will be impossible to notice them then! Parfait!"
"Exactement!"
G20 unfolds, just like every other time. Sarko is in no different mood still, as Le Doge Silvionni de Berlusconi prowls in the middle, irritating everyone, chief among them, the Queen.
"Silvio must be 5 5", muses the Corporal.
Carla sees her beloved one still restless and she talks him up.
"Sarko, imagine you're Gulliver. Ce G20 is vos travails, Gulliver's travels, remember Lilliput? Brobdingnag? It's all similar. France needs you. Who else but you?"
The gulliver effect turns out drastically positive. The little Corporal gives up his air of perplexion and the time is conducive for the event of the hour, that which everyone's been waiting for.
The little corporal goes on to felicitate the most popular couple of the G20.
As the formalities take flux, Sarko leads away Barryobdingnag threatening to walk out of G20 and why he hates the thanksgiving turkey.
Mme de Bruniharnais in the meantime entertains Michelle, who gifts her a guitar. Carla graciously accepts it and the ladies embrace each other like sisters.
"What's that?", asks the Corporal, later.
"It's a gibson, I love it, pour mes chansons"
The corporal frowns, royale at that.
"It's so wonderful. It's so compact, tt's only 4 feet"
The corporal smiles. That was just the relief he so badly needed.
Meanwhile, back in the frigate:
"Your majesty was gracious at the G20", so Le Dauphin eats his humble pie.
"I achieved all my objectives, Francois, it's a Dieusend"
"The gibson in particular was a pleasant surprise, now the people really have music for their ears, if not bread"
The dauphin's pungent sarkosm agitates the little corporal. He tears his robes, smashes his crown, leaps from his armoire royale, kicks le dauphin right out of his sight with all his might, "IMBECILE" and smashes the gibson to the ground out of rage, once, twice, thrice, like Pete Townshend. He's no Happy Jack at the moment.
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Call Michelle Obama the ultimate guitar hero. 
