Two burly secret service looking men in suits and sunglasses are standing before a set of double doors. One touches his ear, listening to something said over their intercom. The camera takes us through the doors where we see a foreign PRINCE in his early twenties standing before a large mirror being dressed by his ATTENDANTS. His hair is perfectly slicked back and his suit is of the finest make. He is completely bored and frustrated. One man stands to the side, reading off an iPad. All in this group could have British accents to make them seem more prim and proper.


… And then, Your Highness, you must appear at the luncheon before moving on to the United Nations assembly where you must give a speech on what is to be done concerning the our floundering economy. Then we will adjourn to the United Nations Ceremony where you will accept the Humanitarian Award on behalf of the good works your honored father, His Majesty the King, has performed for both our people and those in impoverished nations. Following that we have to rush – and I mean RUSH – to the hospital where you will present a check for pediatric cancer research. Next, you father has requested …

His voice fades out as the prince ceases paying attention. The man dressing him has almost finished. He moves to a drawer and pulls out a decorative scarlet military sash. He drapes it over the prince and adds shoulder tassels, very 19th Century Prince Charming-esque. Now all that remains the tie. He wraps it around the prince’s neck and pulls. The prince grunts.


Too tight.

The two attendants fly into a tizzy, one apologizing and bowing the other rushing to the mini fridge and rummaging through it. There are no water bottles, and all that is there is alcohol and milk. He mutters something about shoddy American service and pours the prince the milk in an expensive crystal glass.


To soothe the throat, Your Highness.

The prince accepts, face agitated. He finishes the milk, and the attendant who caused the ruckus in the first place scurries over to wipe his mouth. The prince frowns and unwillingly lets himself be pampered.


The prince, his attendant and guards walk out of his room and make their way to the elevator. The attendant is busy on his iPad, still yammering schedules and meetings at the prince. His phone rings and he answers, stepping to the side. A crash and yell are heard from down the hall. One guard goes to investigate while the other pushes the elevator button again and says something over his intercom. The prince clasps his hands behind his back and rolls his eyes. While he does so he notices that, for once, no one is paying attention to him. He takes a precautionary step backward. The guard and the attendant do not notice. He takes a few more steps. Still no response. He backs around the corner and slips into the stairwell.


The prince is seen walking along 6th Avenue, head arched back to see all the buildings. His phone rings. He shuts it off and puts it away. He is not paying attention to where he is going and gets bumped along by the crowd. He is stunned that people would dare to jostle him. Though he looks so very uncomfortable, he manages to make it to the street corner where he stops and waits for the signal to cross. A man in a suit similar to his who is holding a Starbucks coffee cup charges into him. The coffee spills all over both of them, staining their suits and making them cry out at the heat.


Damnit! What did you stop for? Look what you did!


I beg your pardon? I demand an apology for your atrocious behavior this instant!


Up yours.

The prince’s jaw drops. The man stalks away. The prince throws back his head and laughs. No one has ever spoken to him like that. He enjoyed it.

The walk signal flashes and the prince crosses the street with the crowd. He passes a café with fruits, juices and milk stacked in the windows. A group of teenagers wearing punk or emo clothes, who are clearly skipping school, stroll by him.


You got a mad big stain, dude.


Up yours.

The kids move on as the prince ogles them and their unkempt appearance. Inspired, he removes his tie and untucks his shirt, but leaves the sash, having no appropriate place to store it.

A woman in a blouse, pencil skirt and sneakers bursts passed him and darts into the café. The prince stares openly through the window as she readjusts her shoulder bag and purchases a quart of milk. Their eyes lock through the window. She looks away first, opening the quart and drinking directly from it. The prince clasps his hands behind his back. The woman exits the store and continues on her way to work, still sipping from the bottle. The prince follows a few paces behind. This continues for a little while until she moves over to the side of the street and changes her sneakers for heels from her shoulder bag. She takes one last, giant swig. The carton is still half full.

The woman and the prince lock gazes again. She has a massive milk mustache, which she wipes on her sleeve. She smiles and walks up to him. The prince makes a formal bow. The woman smiles and hands him the rest of her milk before prancing into the Bank of America Tower.

Back on the street, the prince looks down at the milk in his hand and smiles.



The prince waltzes into the lobby and throws away the empty milk carton right before his guards and attendants swarm him. The attendant with the iPad reaches him first and opens his mouth to admonish him but stops when he sees the prince’s disheveled state. The prince grins and wipes his milk mustache on his sleeve.



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