Windel’s head is beating like the protest drums of the stupid hill tribes–which issue they probably won’t even get to, today. It’s hard to conquer a continent when the ruling council stinks.
“Lords,” Windel says, “we must have your decision on the prohibition of alcohol in the newly conquered lands! What are your votes?”
But as always, they’re deadlocked: three wet, three dry.
Leaving the chamber, Windel kicks his agenda in frustration, and his aide scrambles to scoop up the scattered papers. “I’m this close to instigating a coup,” Windel growls.
“What,” his aide says hesitantly, “like a regime change?”