A long time ago, there lived a man made not for his time but for ours. Born into nobility, he was educated in grammar by the finest teachers that money could buy. Not that he cared. This prodigal son had nothing but contempt for the masses, and after bearing witness to the banishment of their last ruler, he made haste for the woodlands to make a living off of grubs and leaves.

This self-imposed exile provided the man who would be King time for reflection. He spent the most productive years of his adult life in the study of nature. This ain't the nature that I learned about on television while watching PBS. His thoughts veered metaphysical. Some conceits from an ancient time in a far away land get lost in translation.

Being something of a devout misanthrope by nature, he took on no students and had no teachers in philosophy. Well, none that history recalls. He's remembered by way of writing his treatises down on papyrus when the inspiration moved him and depositing them in the temple of the chief god of the land as a sacrament to his own sense of piety.

Many things have been said about this man. He buried himself in dung to stave off a bad case of the flu. He had a voice shrill as a cuckoo and used it once when asked to participate in the local democracy. The wisest men called him -and continue to call him- obscure. He handed down the crown that was rightfully his to his younger brother because he couldn't be bothered to lord over the people that praised him.

In the time when Kings were actually wanted, there was a young man who, like his father, was slated to be King. The King-to-be was a normal pampered royal kid. One afternoon, the King called his son to his chambers.

"Son," the old King wheezed, "it is your time to become ruler of this fine land."

"But father," the son cried, "I hate politics! I can't sit still during business meetings, how am I to preside over every court case and formal celebration?"

"Haven't your tutors been teaching you how to be a pompous King?" The King asked.

"No father, I banished them when I was six years old."

"But why, my son?" The old King's breathing became heavy.

"Because, father, I hate ruling people's lives! I don't have the right to boss everyone else around! I am not God, and nor do I have his power!", The son shouted. He stormed out of his father's bedroom, fuming with anger. He strode down to the stables and saddled his favorite-colored horse. Grabbing several weeks worth of food and water, some hunting weapons, and a portable color T.V. (a rare commodity in those days), he rode off into the sunset; forever forsaking his royalty.

The old King passed away mere days later, without having named a new heir. Because of this, the Royal Princess claimed the crown and the throne for her own. The Kingdom lived neutrally ever after. The son spent the rest of his life wandering the country ousting tyrannical rulers and helping sick people. Thus is the tale of he who would not be king, but instead a mercenary and paramedic.