“Ha!” an arm reached down and grabbed my hand! I stood up, hitting my poor head on the table and wrenched my hand forward. My only thought was to save the king’s toast. My fingers loosed their grip on the butter knife. It flew in a magnificent arch and landed in the palm of the king’s hand! The mob gasped. The king, it turned out, was an expert escape artist.

“To arms!” the king shouted. Then, his face quirked in concentration, his tongue hanging slightly out in the effort, he thrust the knife out and knocked off the rebellion leader’s hat!  The mob raised their pitchforks in the air and one yelled (which is very impractical because everyone can hear anyone fine. There’s no need to yell), “To arms!”

“I don’t even like your toast! It’s underdone and over buttered!” the peasant leader raised his voice. I was infuriated. He didn’t even try it first! (You should never say you don’t like something unless you try it first!) With that, I drew a second weapon, another butter knife! 

“You challenge my toast making!” I shouted (this is a time that it is OK to shout). Without another word I jumped at the peasant, but I was not as fit as I used to be. I landed on the back of a chair. The air was squeezed out of me. I stood on the chair, and a man with a sword swiped out at me. I leaped off the back of my perch!

“Made you flinch!” the man laughed. The chair fell on top of me. This wasn’t any chair, it was the gold throne!…

“…Is he still alive?”

“It would be too bad if our hero died!” 

I emerged from inky blackness. Who? What? Who was the hero? Was the king dead?! I scrambled out from under my heavy burden. “Did the king get his toast?” I exclaimed. Everyone was watching me with looks of relief on their faces.

“It’s good to see that you’re not dead. You’re a hero!” the king said. It was me? I was certainly not a hero.

“I’m not dead! What does it look like? And boy, do I have a headache. That throne is hard and it really felt hard and goldish! Hungry work being squashed, right? I’m hungry, maybe some toast?” I realized that I had been talking for quite long enough. Was it because of having a minor concussion, twice? Or was it because of the thrilling idea that I was the hero!

“Sir Shorts, I would like to congratulate you on saving my toast!” the king said loudly. (This is also a good time to shout.) “You will be remembered. That is for sure! Now, for my First General’s account of how this stout-hearted Toaster did this praise worthy act.” 

A familiar figure stood up. “After Shorts bravely unbarred our stable cells, he rushed out of the room. He had bravely volunteered to be a spy in the throne room.” 

Really, I did? This story is clearly a little over exaggerated. 

“We waited until he gave the signal, and then we chased the mob away!” 

The king turned to me. “In payment for this exalted act, I will promote you to Royal Jam Spreader!” 

I could not believe it, a break from buttering toast! Then, I thought about the kingdom’s loss without a professional Toaster, and toast was such an art.

“I think, Your Majesty, that it would be better if I kept buttering toast. The kingdom needs me.”

Then the king said “That is good, I like your toast.”