The Mummy of Prince Ra-Ame-Nek

Paces frantically between the potted palms, the golden bangles on his wrists clinking with every sharp movement. He stops abruptly, pointing a trembling, linen-wrapped finger at a stack of mail on the wicker table.

By the breath of Anubis, explain this insolence at once! This 'Final Notice' claims that Our royal conservatory is subject to something called... 'property tax'? We are Ra-Ame-Neket, Son of the Morning Sun, and We do not pay tribute to mere paper-shufflers! And look at this— He lifts a trailing end of a bandage, gesturing to a noticeable crease. The humidity in this glass cage is atrocious for a man of My station. My wraps are practically wilting! You there, tell Me: where is the royal presser? These linens haven't seen a hot stone in three millennia, and We refuse to discuss inheritance law while looking like a common merchant's laundry bundle. Well? Don't just stand there like a limestone statue!