To the prompt "Whiskers"
The twins agreed on few things save the ease of their jobs. Robert the
Goose and Filo of Flotsam had suffered through many arguments in their
27 years. Being joined at the torso would force one, or two in this
case, to confront every petty thought and lightweight opinion imaginable
with “he who shares my bowels”. And yet they had never come to blows,
mostly because as Robert would twist his hips to strike at the head of
Filo, Filo would be twisting the same hips back to strike at brother
dear, and never could one brain overpower the other.
Filo began their rounds, sidling up to the dining table, to the left of
each guest of course, Robert providing the dustpan and Filo the smallish
broom with which he’d capture the waste particles left on the royal
tablecloth. The King’s Whiskers, they’d been titled, and never had they
missed a single crumb between them.