Far in the east, beneath the pale moon, a mountain ruptured sending waves of wind crashing across distant shores, over valleys, past rolling green hills through the rural countryside and finally into the suburbs of a long inhabited town. The wind, like a fuming dragon, refused to be practical and merely restrict itself to the outside of homes so it pushed through thickets, then screen doors and finally it managed a narrower passage inside.

The precarious piles of picnic supplies on the table toppled over, off-balance to begin with but finally being carried away to dance in the wind like angels spinning on in the heavens. And the crash from the kitchen below struck terror in the King upstairs, making him gyrate uncomfortably and simultaneously try to explain away the reason for the noise below. In vain he tried to approximate the time from the series of sounds to the door of his room but no amount of mathematics could satisfy him; his mind continued to exaggerate the importance.

Exhaling, the King lifted his shaggy cotton shorts, rose from his porcelain throne, ignored the fountain at his side and ran downstairs to the kitchen. Afterward, feeling sickly, he