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Minister of the Chaos

When the official disappeared, the heels stepped in. Just golden cuffs and a legal mind sharp enough to officiate the apocalypse.


No one speaks at first. People shuffle into place, eyes searching the space. A murmur ripples through the crowd: Where's the minister? A few nervous glances. One rogue guest wonders if this is some new-age desert ritual that involves waiting for divine inspiration.

Then

Hazel.

Without missing a beat, she strides to the center, heels silent on the sand, expression unreadable. She adjusts her cuffs, clears her throat with theatrical elegance, and begins.

Since apparently the ordained professional has evaporated...probably seduced by a cactus or buried in mezcal...it is now my sacred duty to officiate this absolutely legal, possibly spiritual, undeniably chaotic union.


Laughter bubbles up. A breeze picks up, as if even the wind is curious now.

Hazel goes on, brilliant, dry, heartfelt, letting her words dance between satire and sincerity.

Then she steps back.

And the real show begins.

Letizia, Olimpia, and Kunto step forward.

One by one, they begin telling stories. Petty revenge. Strange first impressions. Fire incidents. Marble statues. Campfire disasters. Roman scandals. Curses disguised as compliments. The guests start laughing...snorts, belly-laughs, a few actual tears. The sun dips fully below the horizon, leaving a sky streaked in fire and rose.

A dry wind picks up. The guests are fanning themselves with wedding programs. The sky is bleeding red. Camels grumble in the distance. Mariachis instruments linger mid-tune. A lonely bell rings, even though there’s no bell.

By the powers vested in me… by me…

I now pronounce you… whatever the hell you are. Married. Entangled. Miraged.
(smirks)
You may now kiss. Insult. Bite. Or just go for tequila.

As the old saying goes—don’t meddle in marriages… unless you’re wearing SPF 50 and ready for drama.