Human beings do not and cannot live everywhere. I am not talking about the top of Everest, or the innards of a volcano. I mean those tiny outposts of rock in every ocean in the world. The ones covered in hundreds of seabirds, who Tippex the rocks with guano, and marinate the air with the stink of dead fish and manky feathers.
One in particular is no bigger than a modestly priced restaurant, and is three days boat ride from the nearest coast line. The rocks are so sharp that no matter where you land they will scratch the paintwork of your boat.
Mark discovered this when he arrived. He swooshed away some guillemots with his briefcase, breathed in that sardine smell, and remembered this was his dream.
It was more of a display of paperwork than a purchase. His solicitor hadn’t understood his request at first. But when he realised no-one was going to check anyway, he drew up the contract, and charged Mark half a grand.
Mark had the papers in his briefcase, next to the crown. The crown was custom made at a cost so prohibitive he had to remortgage his house. Not that he cared anymore.
He positioned himself on one of the less mucky rocks, and spread out his legs like he straddled the back of a chair. He unclipped the briefcase, pulled out the crown from the protective casing, and using both hands coronated himself.
The waves crashed against the rocks, and the seabirds got braver. One pecked at his leather shoes. Another hopped on the tails of his suit. With the cold metal resting on his forehead, Mark achieved his dream. He was king of all that he could see.