All hail the King...

The shower head leaks slow... drip... drip... drip...
It reminds me of the annoying little voice in the back of my head. "Jason, you are better than everyone else." "Jason, you have no reason to get out of bed in the morning because you have nothing to offer anyone." "Jason, you are guided by The Great Spirit and everyone will follow you." "Jason, you are leading everyone into the darkest places of the unknown and no one will survive this blistering universe you have created."

The false sense of leadership I was given through mass ingestion of chemicals carried me through the streets of wherever I was at the time, making me almost bulletproof for most of my life. Ego fueled by warm whiskey and tiny lines of cocaine laid out on the back of a puke stained toilet, a dangerous and powerful tool for any mere mortal. Whether the streets were pampered with palm trees, or littered with junkies, it didn't fucking matter. The hot air balloon disguised itself as my head, would float me from bar to bar, talking nonsense to anyone who would listen. Most of the time people would just agree with me because it wasn't worth the argument. On cocaine I was right... no matter what.
A ticker tape parade would be thrown in my honor, and children would run along side of my float screaming my name with love and envy, as my cupped hand shallowly waved to the onlookers, and my dead eyes stared straight ahead to the place where the sun sinks, like the lump that moved from my throat to my heart every morning I was forced to wake up and start another... fucking.... day...
The Prince that now wears the crown due to a fatal injury to the King during battle, must now carry out his barstool plan of world domination, but the town has a different plan for him, and he is quickly banished from the kingdom. The charming peasants that once ran by his side, cheering for him and making his life an unbelievable wash of glory, have now become dark, faceless shadows. Shadows that mock him with moans of distain and hatred. He is afraid to leave a room once he has entered, for fear of what they will say about him when he is not there, and he, eventually becomes so paranoid, that now even showing his face is not an option.
He sits alone, with a tiny ray of light from a crack in the stained glass bearing over his throne, giving him just enough light to dig his scepter into the broken skin that was once smoothed and babylike. The moans have silenced... because no one is there anymore, as he waits to die and never be found.