The complaint said very little of HRH Majed’s subsequent arrest for alleged forced oral copulation, brought after a neighbor saw a woman smeared with blood, shouting for help, and trying to climb an eight-foot wall.
But the media reports said quite a bit.
To be fair to HRH Majed Majed bin Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud: he never faced a criminal trial stemming from his arrest at the hands of the LAPD.
The Los Angeles District Attorney’s office declined to press charges.
And, through his representatives, HRH Majed denied everything stemming from both the arrest and the civil trial. A representative said: “I will not dignify these salacious allegations – which the District attorney found to be unsupported by evidence… The decision by the D.A.’s office not to file charges shows that the accuser’s stories cannot be substantiated… The sheikh is very happy to put it behind him and move on with his life.”
And, it must be said: the lawsuit was filed anonymously and never went to trial.
None of its claims were even proven in a court of law.
And on December 12, 2017 AD, all parties filed for dismissal.
“Can you conceive of how difficult it is for an Arabian prince to be arrested in Beverly Hills?” HRH had asked Dmitri Huda after the media descended. “Even with these false charges and obvious calumnies, how does one achieve such a miracle?”
“His father died in January,” said Dmitri Huda. “Maybe he’s distraught.”
“I wish that my father would die in January! Or any other month! You would never find myself dismantling an equitable arrangement with law enforcement! If one cannot trust the LAPD, then one can trust nothing. The heat is on, Dmitri.”
And so HRH escaped to Silver Lake.
The 2016 AD Aston Martin Vanquish pulled into HRH’s driveway.
A small plastic device sent out a radio transmission that instructed a motor to open the garage door.
The 2016 AD Aston Martin Vanquish pulled into the garage.
HRH removed the crystal key from the ignition.
HRH and the sex worker walked up the stairs and into HRH’s hallway.
“Is this you?” asked the sex worker, pointing to a photograph of a young HRH and Ronald Wilson Reagan, taken during the last year of the former actor’s Presidency, when Alzheimer’s disease had begun transforming the former actor’s brain into useless mush.
“I am indeed the prepubescent so pictured,” said HRH.
The sex worker walked past the photograph of HRH and Richard Milhous Nixon, taken in the early 1990s AD, just before the former President’s death. In the photograph, an unfortunate wisp of a moustache was present on HRH’s upper lip.
HRH walked past the photograph of himself and William Jefferson Clinton, taken in the late 1990s AD. In the photograph, HRH had become a young man.
The sex worker walked past the photograph of HRH and George Walker Bush.
HRH walked past the photograph of himself and George Herbert Walker Bush, taken only moments after HRH was photographed with George Walker Bush.
“The noblest soul ever to vomit upon the Prime Minister of Japan,” said HRH.
The sex worker walked past the photograph of HRH and Donald J. Trump, taken around 2005 AD. The two men were in Bangkok. They were surrounded by pleasure girls.
“Fuck,” said the sex worker. “You know him?”
“He is a friend of my father,” said HRH.
“Who the fuck is your father?” asked the sex worker.
“He is called The Conqueror,” said HRH.
HRH walked past the photograph of himself and James Earl Carter Jr., taken around 2006 AD, in the halcyon days when HRH laundered medical marijuana money through environmental NGOs.
The sex worker walked past the photograph of HRH and Barack Hussein Obama, taken in late 2009 AD.
First Lady Michelle Obama had invited HRH to a White House dinner after HRH funded an initiative to help celebrate Women’s History Month.
HRH and the sex worker were 420-friendly.
The sex worker smoked from a waterpipe that she found in HRH’s living room.
HRH vaped indica.
“Now is the time, O you budding sapling of May,” said HRH. “Your clothes must take their absence from your flesh.”
When the sex worker took off her clothes, HRH was surprised to see that her chest, torso, and left outer thigh were inked with a multicolored tattoo.
The tattoo depicted a monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an octopus-like head whose face was a mass of tentacles, a scaly, rubbery-looking body, prodigious claws on hind and fore feet, and long, narrow wings behind.
In a textbook example of the caricature endemic to the modern tattoo artist, a few of the monster’s tentacles wrapped around the sex worker’s nipples, and another stretched down to her mons pubis, while a final tentacle went around the left buttock and appeared to terminate at the sex worker’s rectum.
“Rare is the treasure who adorns her essential skin with the cosmic horror of H.P. Lovecraft.”
“Thanks,” said the sex worker.
“Tell me, which of Lovecraft’s works do you rank as the finest?”
“I like ‘The Thing on the Doorstep’,” said the sex worker.
“O my darling, with each step you reveal new depths,” said HRH. “Your perversity knows no bounds.”
HRH vaped indica.
“The Thing on the Doorstep” was about a man who marries a woman only to discover that her mind has been replaced with the malevolent consciousness of the woman’s father. Everything revolves around open concerns of homosexuality, incest, trans people, and flat-out bestiality with a fishwoman.
On several occasions in his dewy youth, HRH had masturbated while reading the story.
“My plan had been to roger you senseless,” said HRH to the sex worker. “I was to leave you drooling and dazed like a donkey attacked by the silent killer of encephalomyelitis. Yet damn your eyes, you have revealed yourself as a beast who should not suffer the usual rounds of amorous pursuits. For you, I shall unleash the highest form of depredation. I will permit entry to my inner sanctum, to the chamber where the grandest perversity flourishes. Fear not. I possess no red room of pain. This is neither Fifty Shades of Grey nor The Amityville Horror.”
The sex worker followed HRH upstairs.
HRH led the sex worker into a bedroom.
There were two DXRacer chairs, a desk, and a giant LCD display attached to an Alienware Area-51 desktop computer.
HRH sat in one of the chairs.
“Position your meat in the other receptacle,” said HRH. “Join me at this terminal to infinity.”
“Are you trying to make me watch porn?” asked the sex worker. “I’ve seen porn. But it’s your money.”
HRH powered on the Alienware Area-51 desktop computer.
HRH opened the Google Chrome web browser.
HRH directed the Google Chrome web browser to https://www.twitch.tv.
https://www.twitch.tv was the URL of Twitch, a subsidiary of Amazon.com, which was a website dedicated to the destruction of the publishing industry.
Amazon.com was owned by Jeff Bezos, who also owned Goodreads.com, the Internet Movie Database, Blue Origin, and the Washington Post, which was a newspaper with a slogan that said: “Democracy Dies in Darkness.”
This motto implied that without a free press casting illumination upon the powerful, American democracy would devolve into a hollow shell.
This motto had been handpicked by Jeff Bezos.