The Lord of Misrule
by Am-Chau Yarkona.
When Potter entered the mess tent, Hawkeye was sitting at the head of the table, enthroned in all the majesty the M*A*S*H could summon at short notice: swaths of golden cloth (courtesy of Corporal Klinger), some strings of beads (donated by the nurses), and six hundred bottle tops (easily acquired from the back of Rosy's Bar).
"Here," BJ said, pushing through the crowd and stuffing something under Hawkeye's feet. "Frank's uniform. That'll do for a footstool."
"Thank you, my man," Hawkeye replied, grinning.
"Speech, speech," the M*A*S*H cried.
"And that's an order!" Potter told him. "Come on, Piece, talk."
Hawkeye nodded, graciously, and lifted his wine glass. "On this, the occasion of my coronation," he began, "I'd like to that you all for your presence—all of you, but most especially Sir Hunnicutt, without whom this would never have been possible."
"Yes, yes, Pierce," Potter said, "but why you?"
Hawkeye shrugged, so BJ explained: "Someone has to be the Lord of Misrule. It is Twelfth Night, after all."
For a moment, they were afraid Potter was going to veto it; but then he grinned. "Well, my lord, I hereby petition for some of the moonshine."
"Granted, noble subject," Hawkeye replied. BJ poured, and then he poured some more, and the evening proceeded as usual until the tent was filled with drunken bodies.
End.