“I’m sorry, your majesty,” Donald Duck said, looking at the elegant swirling of the throne room’s the cornices, the jewel-bright tiles beneath his flippers. Anywhere but into the king’s cold eyes. “You must know the pope won’t grant you the divorce you seek.”
Finally, unwillingly, he did look up to see King Mickey’s face contorted with a terrible fury. “Then I shall found my own Church,” the king said. “And grant my own divorce.”
“What of your compassion?” Donald’s voice cracked and it was a moment before he could go on. “It is not meet that you abandon your wife when she most needs you. If she truly is insane - ”
“It is my compassion that keeps me from ordering her beheaded,” the king said bitterly. “I fear that you have misunderstood me, my old friend. I did not say she was insane.”
Rising from his throne, King Mickey paced across the throne room to stare out at the peaceful green grounds of Disney Castle. He was not seeing them, Donald was sure, but some other, darker vista, conjured by his imagination.
“I said, ‘the queen is fucking Goofy’.”
