Crestfallen the Biddable goggled at his boss, Demotic the Unwise. ‘Are you sure, sir?’

‘Do you really have to ask that question? Again.’ The terminally disappointed dictator forced himself to continue even though his teeth sighed at the temporary relief from being ground. ‘I want it and I want it now.’

‘All of it?’ Crestfallen hoped he hadn’t heard right but, really, he knew he had.

‘Of course all of it, you toenail clipping. Those bloody farmers are always moaning about the weather, how it’s always too hot or wet or cold… whinge, whinge, whinge. Well, let them see how they get on in the dark. They’ve got the brains of a mushroom so let them live like one.’

Crestfallen tried to nod but his neck was weighed down with the miserable consequences of his latest commission. ‘I suppose we could make a sort of pool, sir. A trap. Wait for dusk, just when it’s off for the day and its defences are down, then try and catch all the sunbeams and hold them… but it’ll not be happy and will probably wriggle a bit.’

Demotic grabbed Crestfallen by his jerkin which squealed with surprise but not with delight. ‘Look, you useless landscape contourer, either you catch all the sunlight and lock it away until I say what we do with it or I’ll have you sculpting glaciers with your bare fingers for a couple of eternities.’ He shook off the desperate jerkin (which had been unweaving itself in a futile attempt to escape Demotic’s vicelike and unpleasantly sweaty grip) and waved his gardener away. ‘And when they ask tell those farmers I’ll only let them have it back when they start revering me and not some transient bauble. They need to know that I am the greatest.’

‘Greatest what, your unpleasantness.’

But Demotic had already moved away.

Crestfallen set to. He molded the landscape to create an enormous trap. He waited for a particularly boring dusk when the sunbeams seemed more interested in creating shadow puppets than lighting the landscape – the sun was often at a loose end on Thursdays and happy to try something new – opened the trap and whistled. The sun, naturally curious popped inside to see what was happening at which point Crestfallen slammed the lid shut, clipped in place the padlock and went home for his sausage supper.

The protests soon started with wailing and gnashing and general ho-hummery. This cacophony grew to a particularly self regarding crescendo, which like all egotistical crescendos really need to decent sunlight to show off its best side and thrive but since it was dark and everyone was miserable it shrugged and began to wilt.

Crestfallen was summoned to the Palace. Demotic sat on his throne polishing his crimes and counting his collection of evils. ‘It’s dark, moron.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m fed up with mushroom everything.’

‘Quite so.’

‘So let the bloody sun out to do its thing.’

‘No one has said you’re the greatest, boss.’

‘I know. But the farmers representatives came and told me they’re planning on surprising me. A new Demotic Temple, a line of soaps and toiletries – ‘smell like a devil’ – and Demotic dolls for the kiddies. Just get that lazy ball of fire back where it belongs and…’

‘That’s not going to be so easy…’

Demotic dropped pain and terror back into their boxes with a start. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well I sort of assumed you’d want that sometime so I had a quick word, just to find out how quickly he could be back, crossing the firmament, giving light, warming the day, spreading joy…’

‘Yes, yes, we all know the sodding sun has a bloody ego the size of a constellation but it’s his job.’

‘He likes it in the sun trap. He says it’s restful and he’s going to stay put.’

‘He can’t do that.’

‘He says everyone else wants the sun when they go on vacation – well, now it’s his turn to have a vacation with himself.’

‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘It did when I wrote it down first time.’

‘Tell him to shift his orb, the good for nothing ball of fuel…’

‘He has a point. I mean we all expect him to be up before the day and going down after the night and apparently, though I didn’t know this until he told me, when he goes down at night here, he’s doing another shift of daytime round the other side of the planet…’

‘He’s moonlighting?’

‘Well, in a sense but I think it’s more he’s daylighting. Thing is, he says thanks for making the trap and he’ll just rest his rays for a bit before coming back.’

‘How long?’

‘Half a dozen eons.’

‘Six! Oh he can’t be serious. It’s fungoidal falafels tonight and spore sponge… you don’t realise what it’s doing to my motions.’

‘He thought you’d say that so he made a suggestion.’

‘What?’

‘You worship him.’

‘Hello? I’m the terrible ruler hereabouts. You lot are meant to worship me, not that glorified light bulb.’

‘It’s just an idea. Make him the centre of everything, have people chant his name, offer him sacrifices, that sort of thing and he maybe prepared to put in an appearance. A sort of celestial cameo. Four hours a day.’

‘Eighteen.’

‘Ten.’

‘Twelve.’

‘Done. And he wants to have that crescendo, too.’

‘What, the wilting one?’

‘Yep. He has this idea he’ll start his shift with something of a bang. Sort of day break.’

‘Alright But no noise, mind. Fiery fury only. Mrs Demotic likes to wake up to the radio. We don’t need some sodding solar sound system blasting us awake.’ Demotic picked up misery and poked it in the eye. ‘I always hated Thursdays.’

This has been written as part of the #Blog Battle from Rachel Ritchey. Find her post here and have a go