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I was holding court on a barstool whose surface had been polished to a dull shine by years of patrons sitting where I did. My loyal subjects, the bartender, the ceiling fan, and the twinball machines all quietly conferred with me as we conducted our business of the day. Their susurrations were interrupted by the creak of wooden floorboards and dry hinges as an elderly petitioner hobbled into the bar.
She didn’t approach the dais, thus neither myself nor my master of ceremonies said anything to her. She was wearing a long velvet coat, cracked leather moccasins, and had a determined set to her rough-skinned face. The jester of a ceiling fan blew her hair about gently, strands dancing back and forth in the column of light they shared with slowly-shifting motes of dust. With each step, the small bucket that she carried clinked lightly.
The old woman limped up to the game machine, and settled onto the stool with a groan, lending her voice to its squeaky choir. She bent over, hung her bucket over the coin chute, and paid her offering to the machine. Then she reached for the flippers, and started to play. The game coins started to pour into the bottom of the bucket as she expertly cranked the flippers, juggling both balls through a flashing, vibrating, scintillating maze of obstacles.
I had never trifled much with the machine - it was of a dishonest sort, seeking to strip my royal coffers bare and offering little in return. She had somehow befriended it, even entranced it, for it eagerly shared its bounty with the outsider. She was no usurper; she hadn’t come for my throne, but one must always keep an eye out for the machinations of those who would seek to attain my throne or split the loyalties of my subjects. Already the bartender had allowed her to share in his ministrations, bringing her some ice water, but ‘twas not a big deal - noblesse oblige.
Several drinks later, the machine rapidly slowed to a halt, the relative silence almost deafening as its song came to an end. A message was flashing, No payout. The old woman hoisted her bucket, staggered over to the bar, and thumped her winnings down. “I’ve seen you watching, lass. This bar might be yours, but the game - that’s my domain,” said the woman with a twinkle in her eye. She continued, “I just might be looking for an heir myself.”
“Are you a witch?” I asked. “Of a kind,” she replied, leaning in conspiratorially, “but don’t tell anyone, or I just might curse you!” She wiggled her fingers in my direction, pretending to cast a spell. I grinned and gestured for the bartender to give her a drink on my tab. “If there’s a trick to it, I’d certainly like to know,” I said. “Well, there is, but nobody ever believes me,” she said. She continued, “you just take a couple of coins in your hands, wave them over the machine, and say ‘Jingle, jingle!’”
“I’d feel like I’m trying to entertain a baby,” I said. “Well, you are,” she said, “you just need to draw its focus away from the balls every so often. It tends to struggle to track them once they’re in motion, and that throws off the timing of its defense.” I stood up. “Well, no time like the present to try my hand!”
We held court together, stools polished and patinated by our enduring reign. Queens of the Kingdom of Sparkle and Shine.