He tore a piece off his royal shirt, painted some hieroglyphics on it, and went out on the balcony and told the assembled yappoos that it was their “flag” and that they should always fight for it and defend it, no matter whether it was used to grab territory with, or to liberate people who preferred not to be liberated. At this, they all threw up their sweaty caps and hoorayed until they were thick-throated and bughouse. But here and there in the bunch was a party who had managed to wiggle out of the trough-stage in spite of Civilization, and these came forward and examined the “flag” and told the crowd it was nothing but the tail of a shirt waved for pilfering purposes. Whereupon these inquisitive agnostics were promptly busted on the butcher’s hook with proper religious ceremonies. Other Rulers hung out their long lawyer-like necks to pipe the proceedings and found that the flag was the best all-around little device that had yet been framed for keeping the blobs ignorant of the cold-unemotional fact that their rulers were Con Men of keen calibre and their claim to Divine Right of Rule just common, ordinary, everyday Class C Shorthorn. One day one of these rulers happened to turn his head to the right to sneeze, and while he wasn’t looking another ruler slipped over the back of his throne, beckoned to his vassals to follow, and sneaked up on his hands and knees to pull the throne-stool from under the party with the hay fever. Another Ruler, observing the empty seat of his neighbor Divine Ruler, started cross-lots to grab it. But the first Ruler was a crafty little cuss and when he saw this rearguard action, he and his followers turned around and a mighty, murderous mix-up ensued. With a Green Eye on Gain, the other Rulers then buckled on their war boots and galloped into the muck to help the respective pugs and at the same time help themselves to anything lying around uncrated. When they all got thoroughly started, Hell closed its doors and went out of business on account of the competition. Each Ruler realizing that he himself couldn’t fight for fried fish, began to shake his little mad-made god before the eyes of the Deluded, and through poetry, prose and prayer got them to believe that it was deity’s own special wish that he should slaughter his neighbor. This worked like a kaffir charm and all hands went to the slaughter with a smile that reached from ear to ear and clear around to the back of the neck. Every time a certain Divine Righter landed a good old jaw-breaker on the enemy he would say that it was god’s coaching that did it, and every time he got one in the abdominal area that doubled him up like a folding-bed, he would shake his finger at the victor and splutter out, “You wait! God will punish you yet!” They all had the very same god working for them and beseeched him to come down and wallow with them.