Station
A man went to the king.
"King," he said. "King, I wish to address a certain issue with you."
The king nodded sagely and said nothing.
"King," he continued. "O king, why must I hoe the fields all day, and muck the stalls, and sweep the floor? Why can you sit all day, saying little and doing nothing?"
The king listened but said nothing.
"King," he elaborated. "O kingly man, my arm is flesh as is yours. My mind runs and my heart beats. The only difference betwixt us two is our clothing. Give me now your crown, O man, for I deserve it equally as you."
The king considered silently. He rose, removed his crown, and, handing it to the peasant, stepped down from his throne’s dais and sat in a chair by the way.
"Soldiers," called the man. "Stand around my throne. Cook? Fetch me some fish. You there–hey, boy!–clean my shoes. Where is my fish? Somebody light the torches before I go blind. Ring up a painter; this room is a dreadful hue. How long does it take to cook a fish? I like being a king: it makes me feel grand. I have a pebble in shoe. Someone get it out. Call a tailor to make me some new clothes. I am hungry. Cook! Get me a fish at once!"
This continued for the space of four minutes, twenty seconds. A defenestration occurred. The king remounted his throne. He picked up the crown where it had fallen on the floor, adjusted it on his head, sighed, but said nothing.