Andy Warhol Fiesta Pig

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'Not at all,' said the clerk, sliding a sheet of paper across the table. 'Look here . . .'
Tomjon let the as though she owned a controlling interest.
It wasn't his face she was examining. It was his features. Her eyeballs were tracking him from nape to nose like a pair of calipers. He gave her a little brave smile, which she ignored. Just like everyone else, he thought.
Only the Fool noticed him, and returned the smile with an apologetic grin and a tiny conspiratorial waters of debate close over him again.Everyone wanted him to be king. No-one thought twice about what he wanted. His views didn't count.Yes, that was it. No-one wanted him to be king, not precisely him. He just happened to be convenient.Gold does not tarnish, at least physically, but Tomjon felt that the thin band of metal in his hands had an unpleasant depth to its lustre. It had sat on too many troubled heads. If you held it to your ear, you could hear the screams.He became aware of someone else looking at him, their gaze playing across his face like a blowlamp on a lolly. He looked up.It was the third witch, the young . . . the youngest one, with the intense expression and the hedgerow hairstyle. Sitting next to old Fool