The Crooked Prince and the Hole (a fictional story by David Charles Kramer)

He had been a prince once, though back in Britain his name was spat out like a curse. Too many scandals, too much disgrace. The crown sent him away quietly, hoping the Atlantic Ocean would bury the embarrassment.

But America had a way of turning weakness into currency. The prince discovered he could still charm, still corrupt, still make men bend. He found eager listeners in lawmen who should have resisted him. They leaned in, hungry for the glow of royalty, forgetting their duty as fast as whiskey burns down a throat. He whispered in their ears, and the poison took hold.

“You don’t serve the people,” he told them. “You serve yourselves. Take what you want. I’ll protect you.”

And they believed him. One by one, the guardians of order became thieves. They traded honor for shadows, badges for bribes. And they bragged—not about the stealing itself, but about how they never got caught.

“We’re just better at it,” they laughed. “Smarter. Untouchable.”

But they weren’t untouchable. They were simply allowed.

Someone—something—was watching. Every theft, every lie, every betrayal was weighed. They weren’t escaping justice; they were being permitted to keep digging, deeper and deeper, until the hole was wide enough to bury them all at once.

When the night finally came, it came fast. All the riches, the power, the false swagger—they were stripped in a single swoop. The crooks gasped and cried out, “We’ve been robbed!”

And the voice of justice answered, cold and final:

“You weren’t robbed. You were crooks. You were allowed to steal, so that when the hammer fell, it would crush you completely.”

The prince smirked when he heard it. He thought himself cleverer than the rest. He still had his name, his gold, and his best friend—the one man he trusted. The man he had taught all his tricks.

“Always take more than they think you can,” he had told him. “And smile while you do it.”

One night, the best friend remembered. And he acted.

When the prince awoke, everything was gone—gold, leverage, even his fine clothes. His best friend had stripped him bare with the same lessons the prince had once given. He staggered, empty, and at last felt the sickness of his own disgrace rising in him. The crooked prince doubled over and puked.

And then the phone rang.

The sound was sharp, shrill, a blade slicing the silence. His hand shook as he lifted the receiver. A voice came through, disguised and metallic.

“Hey,” it said, almost cheerful. “I just wanted to thank you. And by the way—if you go back to your bad ways, your robberies, your filth—we’ll have to remind you. We already had to make an example of your mother. Yes, we assassinated her. Don’t bother with denial—it wasn’t chance, it wasn’t destiny. It was us. And if you follow her path, your end won’t be cinematic, it won’t be royal, it won’t be remembered. It’ll just be written down as a heart attack.”

There was a pause.

The voice dropped lower, colder:

“Hey, listen… just look on the bright side. You still have all your fingers and your toes. And by the way, you decided to shame the wrong person in the process. So here’s your final warning: keep your big mouth shut, punk.”

Click.

Then—another click.

Then another.

Click. Click. Click.

And faint voices, layered through the line:

“Are we done with him?”

Click. Click.

“I’m out.”

Click. Click.

The silence was worse than the words.

The prince dropped the receiver, staggered back, and puked again.

That was the end.