The King 

One day, the sheriff arrested a man who seemed to have tangled his kite strings in an electric tree on the gray moors. The tree belonged to an old estate. The initial interrogation revealed that it was not a kite string but a fishing line, and the suspect was a repeat offender, having attempted in the past to fish for road coaches, moon phases, letters blowing in the wind, girls in winter coats, torches left in the wet grass, Yorkshire puddings, bones, silverware, moths, bottles of whisky and secret wolves (or valves? the report is almost illegible). Nobody in the shire knew what to make of it. The king was summoned to investigate, which was exasperating because the king was tired and needed rest and wanted to return to his study of meteorology and astronomy in the great tower where he was imprisoned. At the inn near the old estate, the king drank several pints of ale with the suspect, and might have plotted to overthrow parliament had he not discovered the one key fact in the investigation: the suspect could name a thousand different fish skeletons but did not possess a single one—or a pair of scissors. The answer was simple. The man would have to be drowned or taught to fly a box kite. The king thought the latter punishment to be more interesting. 

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