Klash of Koopas

            The dinner in Level 8-4 was nothing like the barren ground surrounding Bowser’s Keep, burnt black by centuries of crushing heat and volcanic eruption. The meal was bountiful, and it was perfect: tanooki leaf salad, garnished with grated 1-UP mushroom, followed by cheep-cheep soup, with sweet donut lift crackers that sank into the salty broth if not quickly slurped up.  The third course, skewers of those squirrel guys from New Super Mario Bros Wii U with acorn dipping sauce, was an excellent palate cleanser for the heavier dishes that followed.  A fourth course of fire-flower roasted monty-mole, a fifth course of smoked reznor flank, so tender the juicy flesh would simply fall off of the bone if touched, a sixth course paella of the rabbit guys from Super Mario Galaxy, and finally a pie made from the fruits of Yoshi’s Story, was savory and heavy enough that it would have fed the entire population of the Koopa Kingdom for weeks.  The Koopalings, smaller replicas of their behemoth, turtle-esque father, gorged themselves, none giving a second thought to why they were summoned from their posts to World 8.

            None except for Morton Koopa Junior.
            Named for his physical resemblance to his father—his build and perpetually open, fanged mouth were the most reminiscent of Bowser—his brown body and white face separated him from his sire just as much as his perceptiveness and his hatred of needless cruelty.  He knew his father well enough that such a sudden show of kindness was…unusual, to say the least.  “Father,” he said, breaking the silence of the room with his low, bass voice, “why have you called us here? Why have you made me, your heir, sit opposite you on the long table, instead of at your side, where I belong?”

            Morton’s questions were mostly met with glares.  The blue-haired Ludwig, always resentful of Morton’s seniority, snarled.  Wendy’s lips—prized and rare amongst reptiles—pouted even beyond their perpetually displeased sneer.  Iggy, who had snorted some mashed-up star crystals from Super Mario Galaxy, laughed shrilly.  Roy watched behind his pink sunglasses, waiting for Bowser to set the tone before speaking.  Larry preened his gaudy blue mohawk, but followed suit.  Only Lemmy—dopey, shrunken, rainbow-headed Lemmy—gave Morton an approving smile.  Where his siblings had picked on the runt of the litter for his small size, Morton had always been kind to Lemmy.

            “You do not sit next to me, because you are no longer my heir.”  Bowser lazily slouched in his chair, amused at his son’s shock spreading across his face.  “And before you gloat at your brother’s fall, none of you are my heirs.  Bowser Junior is my heir.  The rest of you have been declared bastards during this meal, as befits such baseborn spawn.”

            “Bowser Junior?” Ludwig said in consternation.  “He’s ten years younger than any of us!”

            “Heh, what-what kind of name is Bowser Junior anyway, right? Right?” Iggy snorted, amusing himself more than anyone else at the table.  “Dad, you’re-you’re-you’re Morton Bowser Koopa, that’s your name, that’s your name.  That-that-that would be like if Fox McCloud’s son was named ‘Mc Junior.’  You’re a riot!”

            Iggy collapsed into giggles until a sharp blow from Bowser’s meaty paw smashed his head into the hewn stone of the table.  “Morton is no longer my name,” Bowser said.  “I am only Bowser.  A necessary step to distancing myself from you lot, or so Kamek tells me.”  He chuckled.  “Who knows? Perhaps when you are all dead, I may take on the name ‘Morton’ once more.”

            None of the Koopalings missed the sinister threat, and they all shivered under Bowser’s gaze.  But Morton stood strong.  He knew the terrifying fire in his father’s eye was not hatred, not even anger, but an overpowering fear.  It burned brighter than ever tonight.  “What makes you think,” he began, but Bowser spewed a fireball at his chair, forcing Morton to duck out of the way.  Furious, Bowser roared.

            “What makes me think this was necessary? I’ve always hated you, each and every one of you! Every chance I have given you to be useful to me, to protect what is ours, you have been crushed like common koopas! Airships, castles, magic—no matter what I give you, you are stomped into oblivion! I may have whelped you, but you are far more your common-born mother than you are myself.  Bowser Junior is young, he is untested, but he I sired from noble stock.  His purer blood will give him purer purpose.”  Without warning, Bowser grabbed Morton, speechless from what his father was saying, and slammed him against the wall so hard the ensorcelled stones cracked under the strain.  “In a way, I should thank you,” he sneered into Morton’s ear.  “It was easy enough to find ‘reason’ to disown the others—degeneracy, incontinence, sexual deviancy, but you were always incorruptible.   But now,” he let Morton drop to the floor, crushing one of his legs with a swift stomp, “NOW,” he bellowed over his son’s screams, “NOW, I CAN SAY YOU WERE DISLOYAL!”  He turned to the others.  “I’m going to destroy your brother’s mind now, with a wand Kamek forged for me.  Hopefully this will render him more…pliable.  Hold him down.”

            The Koopalings hesitated, and Morton saw his last, his only, chance.  “There are seven of us!” he yelled, clutching his broken, bleeding leg.  “We can destroy him! We can rule this kingdom as siblings, with justice! End the war! Bring prosperity to our people instead of ruin! Please!”

            “Or,” Bowser said, pawing inside of his shell for the wand, “we can largely keep our current arrangement intact.  I can give you castles, ships, anything you want.  Your only responsibility will be to follow my orders.  What say you to that?”

            A long moment of silence reigned.  Ludwig broke it, but not with words.  Instead, he casually strolled towards his bleeding, broken brother, and spat on his face, before straddling his back.  “Don’t just stand there,” he sneered, “help me!”

            One by one the Koopalings rallied, clinging to Morton as he attempted to crawl away.  Even with the weight of six on his shell, Morton was strong, strong enough that he had almost reached the exit of the dining room.  It was only when Lemmy—little Lemmy, Morton’s sole friend—at last made his choice and leapt on Morton’s shattered leg, that the pain and the weight grew to be too much to bear.  “I ask you one last time,” Bowser said, the wand glowing brightly and emitting burning-hot triangles, circles, and squares, “will you follow me?”

            “No,” whispered Morton, and Bowser fired the wand into his son’s face.  The light and heat was too bright for anyone to see anything, but all could hear Morton’s screams of agony, the sizzling sound as the magic burnt through his face and shattered his mind.  The screams stopped, the light faded from the room, and Morton, now with a faint, star-shaped scar burnt into his face, stared dumbly ahead.

            “Will you follow me now?” Bowser repeated.

            “Derp,” Morton said.

            “Good enough.  Out, all of you, before I see any more…disloyalty.”  The Koopalings, even those who had eagerly jumped on Morton, scampered from the room.  Lemmy, sobbing, dragged his brother out with him, who could only drool and utter the occasional “derp.”

            His children gone, Bowser visibly sagged.  He trudged to the throne room and sank into his cavernous chair.  Despite the massive meal he had just eaten, he felt completely empty inside.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but this is how it has to be.  In the game of Super Mario, you win or you die.  Then you come back to life and get another chance.  Then a third chance after that.  Then two more chances, and unless you got any 1-ups, when you die that time, you die for real.”