Once, there was a man who grew up getting everything he ever wanted.
They called him Richard, but he insisted on Dick.
He thought irony made him clever. It didn’t.
He was dubbed Emperor, but only after purchasing the title from a washed-up milkman with a limp and three overdramatic daughters who were foolishly in love.
The milkman had once sung of tradition. Now he just wanted knee surgery and silence.
Dick wanted legacy.
They met halfway at dinner over soup and unresolved generational trauma.
Now an Emperor, a kingdom was made.
Emperor Dick did not govern.
Not exactly.
He curated—and followed his gut.
His leadership style was less “policy” and more aesthetic. Less justice, more vibe.
He signed executive orders in gold ink.
Commissioned a 20-foot statue of himself with manly cheekbones and a sizable bulge.
Once, he redirected emergency relief funds to purchase a manifestation robe to cure his seasonal depression.
Every morning, he stood in his closet—naked, expressionless, assembling a persona from fabric and delusion. This man was more than a leader. He was a brand; a legacy.
A force of nature.
And today was a special day. Something ceremonial, something global, something trending. He needed to look important.
It was his birthday.
His usual designer was unavailable, so the palace sent someone else.
They claimed to be ‘Lars & Spencer’, purveyors of post-material success.
They didn’t knock. They arrived. Unannounced and effortless.
Both characters were tall; sharp bone structures and silk scarves.
They didn’t call themselves tailors.
They were Fabric Architects of the Fourth Paradigm, designers of the unseen, armed with a slide deck, a TEDx talk, and a mood board titled ‘Subtlety’ that was literally blank. Their voices were silky perfume ads in magazines (for the underwear drawer).
The emperor was enchanted.
“Our threads are visible only to those worthy.
It will make you see all of the universe as it's been stitched with quarks and dark matter which is why you can't see it on the rack, but wear it— it will manifest as you move around.”
The emperor was sold!
They smiled.
Their smiles were thin. Their eyes, creepy.
The emperor was happy.
He muttered to himself, “Seen only by those worthy,”. The thought made his insides purr.
He liked that so he delicately put on the clothes with the help of Lars, then Spencer.
And suddenly—everyone could see.
Except no one did.
‘Your Highness, as you walk—tremendous movement, by the way—these colors, they’re surrounding you. People are saying they’ve never seen anything like it. So many shades. Beyond visible. The best shades. Only the smartest people can see them. Very advanced. The best kind of fabric. Other kingdoms are absolutely jealous of you!”.
The Emperor beamed.
Not because he believed—but because disbelief was off-brand.
Anxious, he turned to his staff, and one by one they complimented him.
Some of the staff looked uneasy.
One of his friends appeared diaphoretic—a deluge of sweat coating his face like canola oil. It was then—fighting every instinct not to—the Emperor turned towards the mirror. The tall wardrobe mirror. The expensive one.
He looked.
He really looked.
He stared at man looking back, honestly.
For the first time in a long time and probably the first time as an adult, the emperor saw himself. A man. Bare. Aging. Soft in some places he still insisted were sculpted.
He hesitated.
His breath was caught in a net inside his throat.
To doubt the clothes was to doubt himself.
What would people think?
He chuckled and laughed it off.
He’d rather die naked than be wrong in public. “Yes,” he said, louder than his fear.
“It’s perfect.”
The whole room looked at each other and applauded. The kind of applause that covers doubt like perfume on decay.
Later the parades began.
He walked through the city, clothed in narrative; shame made wearable.
And the people? They cheered.
Because to not cheer is to be seen. Which was dangerous. So the crowd pretended.
A child stood on the float just behind the emperor. Sticky fingers, eating a lollipop, about four years old. He pointed—shouting loudly, “Look mom! he’s got no clothes on!”.
The little boy started to laugh and laugh and laughed. His mother struggled to put her hand over his mouth.
He just wiggled about, giggling.
The crowd was frozen and everyone’s eyes were in disbelief. After a long pregnant pause the crowd started roaring in laughter; they were free, because truth is contagious.
Now everyone was roaring in laughter and several people started pointing.
The illusion cracked; shattered.
The Emperor was mortified.
Unable to handle it, the emperor keeps pacing around pretending as if nothing is happening. His tears threatened to make a standing ovation. He felt the burning sensation of this psychological wall of willful denial, crumbling. He was seen.
As in really seen—as a person.
That is not what he wanted.