A lone knight stood on the battlements of the white castle and surveyed the battlefield. The newly darkened skies had brought a preternatural calm to a surrounding landscape that had, only an hour before, been a hellscape of noise and human activity.
He adjusted his helm and leaned hard on his spear, searching the shadows below for signs of hostility. The once hungry crowds that had threatened to overwhelm their defenses before sunset had retreated, leaving little trace of the carnage that had ensued. Many of the knight’s brave fellows-in-arms were gone now; only he stood atop the parapet now, a solitary figure, stalwart and true to the faith.
A surge of emotion brought him to his feet and he thrust his spear toward the starry heavens in defiance.
“Oh, cruel fate! Why do you task us to such a wicked work as this? Battered we are, by wave upon wave of enemies, but still we stand! Never shall these white walls fall to the soiled hands of the infidel!”
Warm tears stained his cheeks and his voice broke. “Who will stand this watch with me?”
That moment, something stirred in the darkness below. The knight crouched and peered downward, suspicious.
It was Buck Fenton, the assistant manager. The White Castle logo was prominently embroidered on his stained polo shirt. He walked to the middle of the parking lot, turned, and gazed up.
“Dammit, Jeb,” he shouted. “Not this crap again!”
The knight stood, paralyzed in fear.
“Get that bucket off your head, stop waving that mop around, and get down here and finish cleaning the toilet!”