I am Charles Quinten Shorts. I hate my job as Royal Toast Maker. I know that I should be grateful, for there is only one Royal Toast Maker in the Kingdom of Yor. I am not grateful. I hate my job. I graduated as a physician, but this is where I ended up, in the king’s high court. The only thing I do all day is make toast, 12 hours a day, eight days a week. Yep, the king eats that much toast, enough for an extra day in a week! 

It was Toastday, the eighth day of the week. “Make way for our majesty MicEattoast!”, a hareld cried. Trumpets sounded in the throne room to announce the arrival of the king. This ceremony always disturbed me. There was no need to shout. Everybody can hear anyone fine in the throne room. They also don’t need to blare trumpets in my poor ears. The trumpets are always closest to my chair. I know that the king will come at exactly nine o’clock in the morning. 

A plump jeweled figure entered and sat down at the head of the golden table on the throne. I had just brought the toast in and was buttering madly. I had made the nine o’clock toast for the high court, but now 53 and a half pieces of toast had to be ready by nine thirty. 

Then the king recited the Toast of Allegiance that took place every day at exactly nine o’clock, and thirty seconds. “What is your duty?”, MicEattoast called, and like I stated earlier, there is no need to shout. Everybody can hear anyone easily. We of the high court answered, “To toast, and toast to the king!” With that we all toasted to the King by picking up a piece of buttered toast, raising it in the air and taking a bite.

I had just gotten done with toast number 47 when a page burst into the room with a panicked scream, “The poor are rioting in the streets and farmers from the country will be here soon and they want your h…., your h, h…”