THE COMEDY OF CONSENSUS AN ANCIENT TALE ABOUT THE FALL OF THE SLUR EMPIRE
Far, far away in a distant land was a little town called Tentdens. It was in the county of Invicta (meaning unconquered) in the nation of Albion.
It was an old town, one with a past that reached back into hundreds of years of proud individuality and identity, which was reflected in the architecture, which merged perfectly with the fields and woods and hills all around.
The town was part of a nation that had recently been taken over by stealth; and so it was run by a foreign King. His name was King Slur. He was a small thin man with bulging, watery blue eyes. He was around eighty-five years old.
No one would have believed King Slur's age if they had seen him dance so fast and quick limbed, with so many high kicks that his legs were a blur to the untrained eye. He often danced on upturned silver pots, which made a sound rather like that of thousands of tiny horses galloping on metal sheets.
When relaxing, King Slur sat on his throne and talked of peace and unity and always smiled, but he seldom spoke a word of the truth.
He was at his happiest when his council, The Council of Slur, thought up more ways to tax and control his subjects. For never was there a happy king who did not have far more than his share, and who did not steal all he could, or so said some of the dissenters.