I don't see the note, but I feel like I'm being a bit too self-promotey already? And I'd love to be listed in the Caucus Catalog, though the book will only be free for another few days. And the paperback is still waiting for friggin' Amazon to re-upload ...

Your James Dachshund mug is great/horrible. I took some liberties, in my book, with Goldilocks, and gave her a sidekick called Tuppence who wants to skin the three bears, to address the same issue, but I'm not sure it's as powerful as it should be.

Speaking of the Emperor, I hope you'l forgive me for posting a monster ...

In a fine city on a craggy coast, lofty towers rose overhead and grassy parks spread wide between the avenues. At all hours of day and night, the city rang with music and trade, art and sport. And in the commercial district, bustling boulevards echoed with the cries of fishmongers, costermongers, and ironmongers.

Except one peddler didn’t shout in the boulevards.

One peddler wasn’t allowed.

He woke early every morning to secure a good spot for his stall, and every morning the other vendors chased him into an alley, between a heap of refuse and a tannery wall.

“Unfair!” he muttered. “I’m the real victim here ...”

He glowered at the other peddlers. Selling fish, apples, and iron was easy! But he was a hatemonger, and peddling hate took real effort. Even people who enjoyed a good, bracing hate in private still shied away from buying his wares in bulk—or in public.

The hatemonger scraped together a meager living from a small-but-fervent following, until one day his best customer pulled him aside. This customer was a clever man named Bartholomew, and he suggested a plan.

“The Emperor,” Bright Bart said, “is a shallow, vain man. He loves nothing except himself, and is loved by nobody except himself.”

“How can a man like that help our cause?” the hatemonger asked. “We are men of principle and purpose, not self-regard.”

“We’ll use his vanity to make him our puppet.”

So they bought two looms and began to weave a web. Not of cloth, but of lies. They spread word that they were super-classy weavers, the most popular and high-energy weavers in the city. Soon the palace buzzed with the news, and the Emperor summoned the ‘weavers’ to meet him in the throne room.

“We weave the most amazing clothes, Your Magnificence,” Bright Bart told him. “The colors will make your head spin, believe me. And the patterns? Huge. Huge patterns. Beautiful. “

“Tremendous,” the hatemonger said, then lowered his voice. “And that’s not all, Your Worship.”

“What?” the Emperor asked, absently stroking his daughter, who was sitting on his knee. “What else is there?”

“We only use the rarest fabric, Your Supremacy,” Bright Bart said. “Fabric so very, very great that it’s invisible to anyone who isn’t great.”

The courtiers gasped in amazement, but the Emperor merely said, “I’ve heard of that fabric. I know all about it. I have so much knowledge, I know more than anyone.”

“Of course, Your Perfection.” Bright Bart bowed, and then addressed the courtiers. “You lesser lights may not understand exactly how useful this material is. Our fabric is utterly solid and impeccably sourced ... yet absolutely invisible to anyone who is disgusting or low-energy.”

“It cannot be seen by losers or clowns,” the hatemonger added, “nor by anyone who is third-rate.”

“What we weave on our loom is the truth,” Bright Bart told the courtiers. “For those of superior blood and unfettered sight, we embroider everything except the facts.”

“You will see the world as it truly is,” the hatemonger promised. “For we never cut our cloth on the bias.”

The Emperor rubbed his stubby hands together. Using this wondrous fabric, he could easily check if any of his people were losers or dum-dums.

“Make me your finest outfit!” he declared, and told his treasurer to give the weavers a chest overflowing with gold.

“Yes, Your Magnificence,” the treasurer said, though knowing his Emperor well, he only gave the weavers a promissory note.

The so-called weavers didn’t care: men of principle don’t work for a payment, but for a cause. They were hatemongers, and hate does not mong itself. So they set up the two looms and pretended to weave, though they used no thread save that of their curdled imaginations. They danced around the empty looms, making minute adjustments and sweeping generalizations.

For weeks they wefted and wove. Word of their unstinting drudgery spread through the palace to the city, until every one of the Emperor’s subjects knew about the wonderful properties of their cloth.

After a time, the Emperor wondered how his new garments were coming along. Did he feel a faint sense of unease, that perhaps he wouldn’t see the new clothes? A niggling worry that he would prove to be a loser or a clown?

No. Not even for the tiniest fraction of an underfed second.

Still, he was curious. Not just for himself, but because he enjoyed a spectacle—and he knew that his subjects were impatient to discover which of their so-called friends were disgusting pigs and low-energy losers.

“I’ll send my old guard to have a look,” the Emperor decided. “I can trust him, for he grovels better than anyone in the palace, even the Scribe.”

“You called, Your Highness?” the Scribe simpered, stepping forward.

The Emperor scowled at the smug, ink-stained wretch. “Go with my old guard to inspect the weavers’ work. I can’t stand the sight of your ugly face.”

So the old guard knocked on the workroom door while the Scribe stood beside him, quill hovering over parchment.

“Before you come in,” called the hatemonger, “promise us one thing.”

“What’s that?” the old guard asked.

“Don’t be too kind,” the hatemonger told him through the door. “If you spot a single flaw, you must tell us immediately.”

“Of course,” the old guard said, relieved at this trivial request. After all, he prided himself on his hard-won ability to never spot a serious flaw in any respectable party.

Bright Bart ushered him and the Scribe inside. “The pattern is amazing,” Bart said. “The very, very best. And the colors are beautiful, believe me. So beautiful.”

The old guard stared at the empty looms, a brittle smile covering the breaking of his heart. He’d always suspected the truth, but he’d never known before: he truly was a loser, a third-rate clown. Without the Emperor, he was worth nothing at all.

Still, before he said anything, he glanced nervously at the Scribe. Maybe—he barely dared hope—maybe the looms truly were empty?

“What do you think?” the Scribe asked him.

“Oh!” The old guard swallowed. “Um. It’s tremendous? So, so amazing?”

“How very true!” the hatemonger said.

The old guard took comfort from the scratching of the Scribe’s quill, as the ink-stained functionary recorded his words. After all, if the Scribe saw empty looms, he wouldn’t simply transcribe the quote, would he?

Of course not. The very idea was laughable.

Bright Bart told the old guard about the ‘clothes’ in lurid detail, mentioning every imaginary seam and non-existent button. The old guard memorized his words, while the Scribe recorded every boast and brag. And when they returned to the throne room and repeated the breathless description to the Emperor, the courtiers fluttered with excitement.

The Emperor decided he’d wait no longer. With his court at his heels, he rushed to the workroom to see for himself.

“So beautiful!” the old guard cried, throwing the doors wide. “Amazing! Terrific!”

For a terrible moment, the courtiers stared in dismay—then they broke into a chorus of praise, each one seeking to prove that they, at least, were high energy and first rate.

The Emperor approached the empty looms, his brow furrowed. The courtiers quieted. Even the hatemonger held his breath as the Emperor circled the workroom.

“At long last,” the Emperor thought, “a set of clothes that truly reflects the inner me. An outfit that encapsulates my very soul.” For the Emperor could see clothes on the looms, where no thread existed. His self-regard was so mighty that it painted a breathtaking picture for him, shimmering with his favorite colors: red, white, and blue … but mostly white.

“Huge,” he uttered, and the room erupted in cheers.

“Your Superlativeness,” said his old guard. “Perhaps you’ll grace the city by wearing your new clothes during the procession tomorrow?”

The Emperor agreed, and the ‘weavers’ worked through the night, inventing a few last challenges for themselves, then proposing a few final solutions. And as dawn broke, they finally announced, “The Emperor’s new clothes are ready!”

When the Emperor entered, the ‘weavers’ bowed low and gestured to the empty racks. “Here are the trousers, Your Magnificence,” Bright Bart said. “Here is the shirt and the belt, here the hood and here the robe.”

“All of them together as light as a spider web,” the hatemonger added.

“Look how it sways,” one courtier gasped. “So delicate, so airy.”

“And the colors!” another gushed. “Like an autumn sunset over a lavender field.”

“Like the fresh fall of snow,” Bright Bart murmured, “over a wintry field.”

With a steady stream of flattery, the ‘weavers’ pretended to dress the Emperor. When they finally stepped away, the Emperor surveyed his naked self in the long mirror … and gasped in delight. And after a scant hour enjoying his court’s groveling praise, the Emperor marched from the palace, leading the procession through the streets.

Nobody in the city wished to be proven a loser or clown, of course. So the gathered throngs cried, “The Emperor’s new clothes are beautiful! They fit him so great! The best!”

“Look at his long train!” called the people leaning from the windows. “That’s the longest train. Nobody’s ever had a longer train!”

Praise and exultation sounded all around ... except from the costermonger. “He’s naked!” she blurted. “He’s not wearing anything!”

The courtiers sneered and the guardsmen snorted, but whispers spread like wildfire: “Someone says the Emperor is naked! He’s not wearing anything at all!”

“There isn’t a single stitch on his flabby bum!” the ironmonger agreed.

“And small hands or no,” the fishmonger tittered, “apparently there is a problem. I guarantee it.”

Neighbors turned to neighbors. Friends turned to friends. Was it true? Were they not lightweight losers and disgusting pigs? Could they trust what they saw with their own eyes? In a moment, half of the crowd started shouting, “The Emperor has no clothes! The Emperor has no clothes!”

Laughter rippled through the streets ... until the rest of the crowd jeered, “Liars! Crooked liars! He is wearing clothes! The best clothes!”

“You losers just can’t see his clothes,” the hatemonger called, pushing forward. “Because you’re terrible, disgusting people.”

“Look at him!” the fishmonger said. “He’s naked.”

“Treason!” cried Bright Bart. “Who dares mock the Emperor?”

“Ask anyone!” the ironmonger shouted. “Ask ... ask the Scribe!”

The crowd turned to the Scribe, who puffed out his chest and stroked his chin. He looked to the costermonger, then to the hatemonger. He consulted his parchment for a thoughtful moment then gazed at the Emperor, standing naked in front of the parade.

“Tell us!” the costermonger demanded. “Is the Emperor wearing clothes?”

“Some claim he is,” the Scribe informed her. “And some claim he’s not.”

“I’d like to punch them in the face!” the Emperor bellowed, his jowls wobbling. “So obnoxious! So loud! Treat them very, very rough. They ought to be carried out on stretchers!”

“Your wish is our command!” the hatemonger cried, and he and Bright Bart beat the costermonger with cudgels until her bones snapped.

“I hate to intrude, Emperor,” the Scribe said, with a trace of alarm. “But perhaps you should stop them?”

“My followers have tremendous love for their country,” the Emperor explained. “They’re very passionate, and they’re sick of losing.”

While the costermonger bled to death, Bright Bart took the old guard’s place at the Emperor’s side. He bowed his head in perfect deference, whispering assurances of loyalty into his puppet’s ear. Meanwhile, the hatemonger glared at the frightened crowd. Why weren’t they cheering louder? Why did they still resent him, after everything he’d done?

“I’m the real victim here,” he muttered.

And the Emperor led the procession away, his new clothes resplendent in the sunshine.

You mean people have been exposed to things that are, shall we say, outside of their comfort zone? So they're striking back?

And hey, I sold one! Thanks! I am happy out of all proportion!