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That's right, love. It's too big to land at Peterborough. And it can't land anywhere in New Jersey.
Which means, it's going to need a commercial fucking airport.
Which means with diplomatic immunity that's afforded to me as Prince of St. Albans and as a member of the Royal Family, I am totally within my fucking rights to tell the fuckers at the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey that manages JFK to clear a fucking runway.
There's only one problem.
"They're working sir, but they have a problem clearing the runway and it's going to take at least another two hours," my manservant Jacques is telling me. "They request we carry on a holding pattern till then. Keep ourselves entertained."
Jacques says the last bit with a fucking smile. He knows what I like to do on planes. I usually drink a whole fucking lot and have sex with as many fucking women as possible.
But I didn't bring any fucking women with me this time. It was primarily a state visit with my brother, the King.
I was actually surprised that I was summoned from New York.
"Connor," he said, walking with me down the royal gardens. "Six months ago after the incident where you got caught fucking the stripper, Dad thought it was best to send you to be the kingdom's representative to the UN. With the Constitutionalist party gaining traction, we need you now more than ever" Silas said to me. I nodded. I don't know he's so worried about the Constitutionalist party … I think it will die off. But he was right about the stripper. That's what had happened all right.
I got an apartment once I got to the city in Turtle Bay, overlooking the East River. And I brought the party and a whole new level of fucking debauchery to Midtown East.
"But the hope was that you'd learn your lesson and dry out," Silas says. "It turns out, you've only grown wilder."
The two of us shared a chuckle and then Silas told me that Mom and Dad were watching. Like any good brother who just became King, he was watching out for his younger brother the Prince.
And I mean, Silas had had his wild moments in the past.
Same as I'm doing now.
"Your Highness?" Jacques asks me. "Should I tell JFK we'll be okay?"
See, now this here is the problem, love.
You see, I am 6' 3" of blonde haired, blue-eyed, perfectly chiseled European royalty from the last remaining monarchy in Northern Europe. I have an 8-pack set of abs and a ripped body with muscles that literally ripple. A cock that’s 12 fucking inches and dangling from my legs. Why the fuck do you not look surprised at that?
Well, you know what will surprise you? When I pull out this bad boy from my pants and you see how thick and wide it is. About as thick as those Coke cans you Americans like drinking from.
World famous artists have tattooed on my body and my ink is a fucking masterpiece. The Museum of Modern Art wanted me to pose still as an exhibit once, and I agreed, but a fucking hottie came over and tried to get me to stop being like one of those robots and she began to stick her hand down my pants.
Let's just say the fucking robot didn't last. And the invite from the Met was declined after patrons began to watch the redhead and I start to fuck.
But with all of that, I still try to do right. And I remember Silas' words.
Be more responsible.
The problem is, I have a meeting in an hour.
With a PR firm, of all people.
You want to guess what they're being hired for?
Yup, you guessed it. To clean up my fucking image.
So, some fucking desk jockey who never got a chance to be a fucking pilot and wants to exercise his fucking power wants to keep me up in the fucking air, that's fine.
This prince does shit different.
"Where are you going?" Jacques asks me as I start running to the aft compartment of the 747. "Your Highness, it's only 2 hours. You really don't have--"
"Jacques, tell JFK that you'll land whenever they tell you that you can, but that the Prince is not going to be on board," I tell Jacques as I take off my shirt and my pants.
