Golden Marshall Fennir Enatal, Leader of Nations, Azure Baron of Forces, Master of Roses, reached for his curlers. With the utmost care, he wrapped a lock of his fur around one of the light pink tubes, and then another, and another.
He took his soft pink shirt from his chair. With an aerial elegance, he pulled it over his head, careful not to touch his fur too much. His jacket, set with delicate frills, came next.
His fingers played over the golden buttons, pushing them gracefully through the buttonholes. The fine, soft flaxen bows were next, skillfully tied for the best possible effect.
His pink-and-gold corduroys were quick to follow. Finally, his special Golden Marshall trousers, enshrouded in a thin layer of gold plate, found their way to his waist, falling delicately to his knees.
He removed the curlers from his fur as vigilantly as he could, and then added a light coat of pink lipstick to his lips.
Fenn glanced at the mirror, and smiled. He was apt for his return to the public. With a flourish, he bent over to press the 'on call' button, taking great care not to damage his exquisitely manicured fingernails.
"Golden Marshall Enatal, sir, apropos the exhibition.. It is ripe to commence. Are you at hand and impeccable in your no-doubt brilliant, pulchritudinous nurturing of the self?"
"Genuinely so. However, I must catechize the suggestion of such an exhibition when caliginosity approaches."
Finn's gaze was drawn to the window, and the rocky ground on which the shadows crept ever so quickly forwards. Night on this planet was never boring. Not even a Carrotian could have designed that delightful creeping.
"I comprehend your query," said Innen, on the other side of the line. "But the exhibition must commence so that we may discern the proper proxy for your representative. Your grading and presence is prerequisite for this act."
"I shall be there after I unlax." He punched the button again. No need to hurry, especially not during the approach of the night.
He settled calmly down into his comfortable burrow, being careful not to muss up his fur. His eyes travelled over the photographs set up in front of him; seventy children, five hundred and fifty grandchildren. Not a great feat, but enough to be proud of. And more would come, he was certain. Spring was soon to come again, after all.
Smiling faces, all of them, safe for one, of course. He gently flipped Pollin's picture around. It upset the balance of things. He paused.
The picture was then placed down next to the other three flipped images. They suited eachother, he decided. In life and in art. The flipped pictures would go in the center, to perfect the balance.
After completing this action, his eyes travelled to the life-sized portrait of the Saviour of Carrotia that had won him his position. It always made him smile, too. Ah, to be young again, only just learning the secrets of the brush.
Another glimpse at the window showed that the shadows were about to cover the compound; the glaring light would be gone, and he might have a relaxing night's sleep. This also made him smile, though carefully, as not to smudge his makeup.
He nestled further into his burrow, and let go of a bone-deep, satisfied sigh, before blackness overtook him.
Some hundred kilometers straight upwards into the atmosphere, an alarm clock beeped, showing a bright red 2:33 PM.