It’s good to be the king.
That was what Cerebral Cortex told himself. Cerebral was no ordinary tyrant or absolute monarch. He was the ruling power of his domain. Lord Hippocampus bowed to his every demand. Chancellor Cerebellum cowered under terror. Even the masses of Synaptic Nerves did not dare cross his path.
He controlled his land as tightly as he controlled the royal court. Viceroy Heart never knew which ventricle was under the pay of The Cortex and Baron Epidermis could not keep his pores dilated for the stress that he was under. Not all the aristocracy was against him, however. Baron Liver gleefully put any traitor to work in the toxic environments of the digestive system where they would eventually find themselves in inescapable exile.
But in the far away serfdom of Podiakstan, civil unrest abounded. “We demand better working conditions! We want shorter hours! We want cleaner work environments! We refuse to carry the weight of the Kingdom on our backs while working the dark!” Their leader, Hallux (a.k.a Big Toe), was a mean figure. He was calloused from working endlessly in the pitch black conditions of the mines. His nail was chaffed and a generally offensive odor permeated the immediate space surrounding him. No one messed with Big Toe.
So in secret, Big Toe and his nine associates plotted to overthrow the kingdom. Little Toe (a.k.a Babyface), would innocently curl up and cause the entire kingdom to topple. Middle Toe would cramp itself in the middle of the night. The ankle, meanwhile, would send acute messages to the brain in an effort to overwhelm them with pain.
King Cortex was at breakfast when his world came crashing down. Reports of damage came from all over the kingdom. The upper right limb became immobile. Elite guards of white blood cells were dispatched to repair as much of the damage as possible. Meanwhile, the message from Podiakstan arrived. He writhed in agony. King Cortex was disconcerted. This was the most serious challenge to his authority that he had ever experienced. Should he send down an army of white blood cells to subdue the uprising? Or maybe he could lay siege and prevent supplies from reaching Podiakstan? No. This was too big for him to act alone. He had to call for help. But who could he call?
“911 operator, how may I help you?”
“Pain! Ankle is sprained! I fell and landed on my right arm! I think it’s broken!”
“An ambulance is on it’s way sir. Please hold tight.”
A day later, the arm was in a sling and recovering well. The ankle was put into a cast such that it could not cause any more trouble. As for the mutineers in Podiakstan, they were found guilty of plotting to overthrow the kingdom and every cell in their serfdom was replaced within 20 days by loyalists.
It's good to be the king.
