The prince started down the cellar's dank spiral steps. His hide burned from beating and he had grime as old as he was caked beneath his fingernails. The plunk of his foot on wet stone was music to his ears. His dance descended and the music grew deafening. He was plunking through an inch of slime, the next step he plunged to his knees. Caught in the momentum of descending, he let himself hurtle recklessly down. The dirt gripped each foot and ran his feet, his marionette body tumbling behind. He felt the goop tickle his neck, then dabbing his bottom lip. Slime tendrils curled around each earlobe and yanked. The winding steps poured onto each and dropped faster. The slime rasped in his ear "Welcome back," and the boy collapsed into its arms.
The king will turn on the faucet that night, and water won't rush out. Aggravated, he'll shove his china sink. Something will lurch in the pipes. When he lets out a roar, oil will gush from the faucet, swallowing the basin, drips of grease spraying his slippers.