Description
Last year, there was an Emperor named @thr33som3s, who was so excessively fond of himself, that he had his cult members spend all their money on whatever he saw fit. In particular, he loved his caps, and would never be seen without one, lest the sight of his forehead should distract passing carriage drivers and cause an accident. It was always said of him, “The Emperor is sitting by his cap collection.” That, or he sat in his dysfunctional water closet of which he would never allow the landbaron to update, lest it cost him a thricepenny more. Time passed in the Grotto, which was his capital. One day, he set to work on his grandest cap of all. This would be a cap so grand, it could only be seen by those whose achievements were worthy of industry awards.
“This shall, indeed, be a splendid cap," the Emperor confided to his sock puppet, Richard Slayer III. Having purchased the felts and fabrics, and got to work on his creation. He also bought some portraiture of women who were dressed in a manner that suggested that they did not fear the cold weather, for collecting such trophies also brought him much joy.
“I should like to know how marvelous my new cap looks,” said the Emperor to his sock puppet collection, after feeling satisfied with the grift he had crafted. So he called upon his top minion, a baker of small stale bread chunks, to be sent into his studio. The baker entered to find the Emperor posing proudly in his creation. Upon second glance however, he appeared to merely be crowned in thin air. “What can be the meaning of this?” thought the crunchy salad-garnish manufacturer. He could not see the least bit of head adornment. The stale bread man looked and looked, he could not discover anything, for a very good reason; there was nothing there. “What!” thought he again. “Is it possible that I possess less utility than I thought?" “Well,” said the Emperor, still posing proudly. “You do not say whether my cap pleases you.” “Oh, it is excellent!” replied the cooked dough purveyor, whose face was puckered into a grimace per usual. The whole Grotto, even the ones with elaborate names who nobody had ever spoken to, was talking of the splendid cap which the Emperor had set out to make at a huge expense to everyone.
“Am I not worthy of industry awards? That would be the worst thing that could happen—Oh! My cap is charming,” said the Emperor, boastfully. And he smiled most greedily, and looked closely at the Grotto’s faces; for the time being, they had passed his loyalty test. The Emperor shared in the general satisfaction; and presented his cult members with a jpeg of a phone screenshot that meant they too would have the honor of getting shouted at on a regular basis for any particular reason.
“How splendid his Majesty looks in his new cap, and how well it fits!” everyone cried out. “What a design! What colors! This is indeed a fine creation.” “The procession is waiting,” announced the cubed baked good distributor. So now the Emperor walked under his high canopy in the midst of the grandiose larp procession, through the streets of his capital; and all the people standing by, and those at the windows, cried out, “Oh! How beautiful is our Emperor’s new cap!” No one would admit that he could not see this much-admired cap, because, in doing so, he would have declared himself unfit for the next season, should it ever happen.
“But the Emperor’s morality is as receded as his hairline!” shouted a lady who knew too much. A nervous hush descended upon the Grotto, there was not a sound, save for the faint jingle of coins moving through a string of alt wallets before making their exit. “Do not listen to that devil woman, for I smell defamation,” proclaimed a sycophantic professor of the arts, who merely wished to protect his own degenerate investments. "The radiant glow from above your eyebrows is only matched by the sun as a photonic force of nature."
“So that is why he always wears a cap, to hide that waxy glare,” cried out all the people. The Emperor was vexed, but committed to the grift; the procession must go on! All the king’s horses and all the king’s men took greater pains than ever to lavish praise upon his new ball cap, although, in reality, ‘tis Jaime Dubaur Dean himself who is cap.