The King in Orange II

Naked, except for a blood-stained cloak that reeks of foreign piss, he sates himself on his ministers's wives and daughters, always returning to the flesh of his own daughter-consort. Ever unclean, he ruts among the waste and showers never, just in case.

An oily residue coats his skin in an angry, poisonous orange, as if gold could curdle like milk left in the sun or rust beneath the chemical rain. The cloak's frayed and filthy edges drag along the floor. On the outside stars and alternating bars of blood and bone bear dull witness, while the inner face that rubs against his skin, shows a stolen and perverted four-armed symbol of well being.

He had books on law, governance, fairness, and equality but he couldn't read then so he ate them, childish hands plucking at the pages and stuffing them into that nauseating maw. In the end he shit them out before the statue of justice he had left coated in his fluids and whose covered eyes would never show the horror she had endured.

His orange mask is no mask at all.