Alchemists’ Duel

Alchemists’ duels are weird.

Part of it makes about as much sense as duels usually do, with two people throwing alchemy at each other for whatever reason. The particular details of alchemists’ duels are more unique.

For one thing, both participants have easy access to Elixer of Life. So no duel ever actually ends with anyone dying, which means alchemists are more willing than, say, wizards, to fight duels at the drop of a conical hat. Sometimes they do it just for bragging rights.

I have no idea what caused the one I saw. Maybe Aceso accidentally insulted Heptamegistus (yes, silly names are traditional), more likely he just wanted the boost in reputation from having beaten her, but for whatever reason he challenged her to a duel and she agreed. They scheduled it for thirteen days later, and started preparing.

I asked someone who seemed to know what was going on, and apparently thirteen days is standard. Some of the more powerful mixtures take precisely a fortnight to prepare, and they don’t want those being used around spectators. (It has to be a fortnight and not just fourteen days. Most of the people I asked didn’t know the difference either, but they all pointed out that they weren’t alchemists.)

Heptamegistus publicly bragged that he had found a way to brew the Evil Tomato Juice Of Powerful Power in less than a fortnight. While the people constructing the arena started moving the stands farther back to keep them out of the blast radius, reporters asked Aceso if she was worried about facing someone armed with that. She didn’t even change her expression, just said that he was probably lying about the fortnight and had more likely started preparing it before challenging her.

The former underdog kept going, claiming that he would use more and more powerful and dangerous abilities. Every time he escalated, it was obvious that he was getting more and more stressed, but Aceso continued being aggressively calm. Now the interviewers were asking Heptamegistus whether he really thought it was a good idea to challenge the Aceso to a duel, and did he really think he could win this. Aceso continued not reacting, and commented that she wouldn’t have to use any alchemy at all because her opponent’s nerves would lose him the match.

With three days to go, Heptamegistus said he had an idea and disappeared. He was hardly seen at all after that, but when he came out on the day of the duel he looked prepared. He was still shaking, but he told the interviewers that he had created a potion that would give him nerves of steel, and with the firepower he was bringing he could leave a giant smoking crater where Aceso used to be. It would take her weeks to recover.

I had made sure to read up on what the point of these duels was. Apparently, ever since the formula for Elixer of Life became public domain these duels hadn’t been duels so much as games. The winner would be whoever was left standing, but the real point was to win with style. The crowd was expecting fireworks and lightning, at minimum.

The contestants walked on to the arena. The audience had to strain to see them; normally they would have been nearer but for this duel their normal distance might be too close.

Both duelists were checked by the officiating wizards for any traces of preexisting alchemy, and walked up to their assigned cauldrons. Duels could either end in seconds if one had prepared something the other was unready for, or go on for hours or even days as they improvised with the ingredients they brought. The arenas had to be entirely made of alchemically boring aluminum, and had been ever since an incident where a duelist vaporized the wood floor with a single drop of dragonfire.

Both drew out their allotted single chalice of previously prepared liquids, and Heptamegistus drank. Aceso poured hers out in front of her, and it was pure water.
Her opponent froze with the glass to his lips, and the ground rang when he fell.

At the post-match interviews, the first time someone asked Aceso what she had done to Heptamegistus she answered that she had done nothing at all; but he was in no pain and would be back to normal any minute. She had simply arranged for him to drink an excessively literal potion.

It turns out steel wires aren’t that great at correctly transmitting electrical impulses for the nervous system. It works better with actual nerves. So Heptamegistus was receiving no information from any sensory organs, and could send no instructions to his limbs to move them. He would stay conscious but paralyzed and insensate until the Elixer of Life brought him back to normal.

Without that elixer, Heptamegistus would have been basically flayed alive from the inside—the sciatic nerve, for example, is roughly the size of an epee blade and perilously close to several arteries, and thinner nerves would be sharper and more numerous—but with it he’d just spend a few minutes unable to see, hear, feel, or move. He later reported this as having been the worst few minutes of his life, trying to mix potions but not knowing whether his body was obeying his commands, or even if he was still alive.

The audience, thoroughly impressed with Aceso, decided to tell Heptamegistus that he had fought on bravely even after Aceso hit him with a compound that took away his senses. It’d be less embarrassing for him than the truth, and it’s not like he could know the difference.

And after that, nobody challenged Aceso for a very long time.

Phoenix Tears and You

So, you’ve just found out that there’s a species dependent on your tears to stay alive.

Wait, what?
It’s true. Your tears can cure any illness or injury they ever get. Anything short of death.

Seriously?
Yes. They’re called “humans,” and they consider your species legendary beings.

Because of the tears thing?
Because of the tears thing. Well, that, and the burning to death and being reborn at regular intervals, and all the flame-themed magic, and stuff like that.

So is this why humans keep asking me to cry?
Yes. It’s pretty understandable, actually, since they usually have someone they want you to cure and when humans die they don’t just light themselves on fire and come out younger.

What? Why are there any of them left?
There are always new ones. Sometimes there are more of them and sometimes less; it’s kind of weird. 

So it doesn’t really matter if they die?
It matters to them. It’d be nice of you to help them out.

And by “help them out” you mean “cry on them to keep them alive.”
Or save the tears in a jar or something. Can you cry at will? I can recommend some acting lessons.

This is weird and kind of creepy.
Yeah, probably. But I promise it’s worth it to the humans.

I don’t like the idea of my tears being in someone else’s body. I’m not doing it.
I’m pretty sure all the humans would agree you have an ethical obligation to do it.

Not doing it.

 

So, you’ve just found out there’s a species that needs your blood to live.

 

Wait, what?
Yep. They’re called vampires, and they starve without human blood.

I heard you talking to that phoenix. You’re about to try to convince me to feed the vampires.
Pretty much.  It’s inconvenient but safe, and it’ll save someone’s life.

A vampire’s life.
It’s not their fault they’re a vampire! That’s racist. And they have literally no ethical source of food other than human volunteers.

Aren’t they just going to need to feed again later?
Usually it’s a one-time thing. There are exceptions. But even so, so what? 

It sounds painful.
Kind of. It’s a lot less painful than starving to death, though.

And dangerous.
It’s actually not. It’s not like anyone will go crazy and try to kill you for your blood, and modern sanitation makes vampirism not contagious.

And disgusting. I don’t like the idea of my blood in someone else’s digestive tract.
How do you think they feel about it?

Look, you’re obviously crazy and there is no way I’m doing something that disgusting.
You’re OK with people dying for your feelings?

Go bother someone else.
You know, a phoenix just refused something easier than this. How would you like to be able to tell people you’re more ethical than a phoenix?

OK, I’m in.

So, you’ve just found out there are people who need your blood to stay alive.

Hey, you’re that vampire guy! I’m not letting any vampires use my blood.
Why not?

Um, they’re disgusting and cannibalistic and evil and stuff?
I’d argue with you, but it turns out calling people racist isn’t very effective at convincing them.
What if they weren’t disgusting evil creatures? Would saving someone nicer be worth something  approximately that degree of weird?

Well of course. I’m not a psychopath, so of course I’d take a few minutes’ inconvenience to save the life of a centaur or a unicorn or whatever.
In fact, wouldn’t you agree you have a moral duty to do that just as much as a phoenix has a duty to save people?

Well, not as much, because with the phoenix it’s less effort and it’s saving real human people….
Good news! It works on humans, too.

Huh?
Really. You go slightly out of your way and have a moderately unpleasant part of your afternoon, and it saves someone’s life. This is totally within your power as a normal human and doesn’t have to involve any fantasy creatures whatsoever.

Oh, you’re talking about blood donations. No, I don’t do that.

 

 I’m always annoyed at people in fiction continually missing really obvious solutions to things. And then in some cases the same thing works even better in real life, and people still don’t do it. I don’t know if it came across, but the point I was trying to get at is that if you think phoenixes should cure everything then you should probably be a blood donor.

List of arguments that did not get made at last weekend’s mock trial tournament

“Please state your name, spelling your last for the record.”

“Objection! The question calls for hearsay.”
“If allowed to testify, I have a good faith belief that the witness will state her name. Since she only knows her name because other people told it to her in her childhood, this is an out-of-court statement being brought in to court to prove the truth of the assertion.”

“Where were you on August 30, 2012?”
“Objection, lack of foundation. It has not been established that this witness is over a year and a half old.”

“Opposing counsel just said that if allowed to testify, he has a good faith belief that the witness will state [whatever]. This is grammatically ambiguous.
In fact, the order of the clauses in this sentence implies that he only has this belief if he himself is allowed to testify, which he is not. Clearly he intended for the witness to be the subject of the subordinate clause. What he actually meant to say was “I have a good faith belief that, if allowed to testify, the witness will state [whatever].” If I may invite the court’s attention to these sentence diagrams…”

“Under Rule 201 (b) (2), the court may take judicial notice of any fact that can be accurately and readily determined from sources that cannot reasonably be questioned. And 201 (c) (2) states that the court must take judicial notice if a party requests it and the necessary information is supplied.
Here, the necessary sources that cannot be questioned are your own eyes, as well as the eyes of everyone else in the courtroom. Therefore, I request that Your Honor instruct the jury that opposing counsel’s face is ugly.”

“Objection, improper character.”
“No character evidence has been elicited. I’m going to overrule that unless you’re very convincing.”
“My objection is not to improper character evidence, your honor. The witness is just being a jerk.”

And one argument that did occur.

Attorney: “Objection, relevance. The location of the witness’ pants has no bearing on any fact of consequence in this case.”

Other attorney: “He bare witness [sic] to overhearing a conversation from a bathroom stall, so this goes to the credibility of his perceptions.”

Judge: “Can we stop using that word in connection with the location of the pants?”

(It’s paraphrased because I didn’t have a pen handy at the time, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t change the number of homophones.)

The objection got overruled.

Inverse Magic

After seeing it used one too many times, I decided I’m tired of the whole “strong emotions make your magic more powerful” thing. It’s not bad; it’s just overused to the point where it doesn’t occur to people to not use it. So I want to see something where it’s the opposite. Try this instead.

Magic power is proportional to how much you care about the thing you’re using it for. That much is pretty normal. Unlike normal, it’s inversely proportional.

You can, on a whim, create a planetoid made entirely of antimatter. And keep it magically contained in such a way that it’s entirely safe and leaks precisely enough energy to warm up your tea. But if you’re trying to use magic to Save The World, then you’re limited to maybe creating a small air current from across the room.

It is considered impolite to use magic for others. This is because if you are capable of, say, conjuring them a sandwich, it implies that you don’t care very much whether or not they get one. (The extent to which this is true depends on how much magic you have to use while doing it, but for purposes of politeness and social signalling people usually just avoid stating upper bounds on how important other people’s needs are. For obvious reasons.)

Instead, people employ mages for hire. It’s a pretty low-status position because of the specific requirements, but it does pay well. The mages for hire are nice friendly people with no empathy. They don’t care about your problem at all, and how much they care whether the solution works depends entirely on how much you’re paying them.

The economics would be interesting, but I suspect it works out. For really big things, like if you want to hire one to end world hunger, that’d be worth a lot of money to you. And they won’t do it for less money than you’re willing to pay. But if they personally have a lot riding on it then they actually do care whether it works and so they wouldn’t be able to easily do it. For small, cheap things, they could but you’ll get out-bidden. There’ll be a range of things that are worth hiring a mage for and still possible for them to do, but I haven’t decided where that should be.

(No, you can’t just pay a mage $1000 to make you a millionaire. Governments use mostly mundane but extremely aggressive anti-counterfeiting measures so that it’s prohibitively difficult to get away with magically creating money. Most magic users know better than to try.)

Of course, there has to be a typical way to try to take over the world. You need at least two villains with completely orthogonal goals, so that they honestly don’t care whether the other succeeds or fails. Like maybe Sauron wants to rule the world but doesn’t care who’s in it, and Magneto doesn’t care who rules the world but doesn’t want any non-magic-users in it. (I’m sure there’s at least one version of Magneto that wanted all non-mutants dead, right?) Then since magic power is inversely proportional to importance, they can both do unstoppable amounts of magic to help the other.

Unfortunately for the world, it’s nearly impossible to stop the villains by magical means. Anyone who wants to try is trying to save lots of people’s lives and everybody’s way of life, and that’s probably near the top of the list of things they care about. Very few of these villain teams have ever been brought down by any wizard that there is or was.

Very few have ever had to be. Fortunately for the world, the villains doing this have to fit some specific criteria. They can’t be friends, or what happens to the other will be something they care about and that limits their power. They can barely even be allies, since they’re working toward totally different goals and are completely neutral toward each other. But they have to trust each other completely, enough to unleash world-shapingly powerful magicks upon request. Since all the parties involved are of the supervillainly persuasion, the trust bit usually fails and they turn on each other and the world remains un-taken-over. The average citizen doesn’t realize how many times this has happened.

Solving world problems with magic is accepted (mostly accurately) to be impossible. Some were easy enough, for instance widespread starvation is no longer a thing, but the remaining serious issues are complicated enough that the only people who would know how to solve them with magic are also the people that the issues are important to.

The protagonist of the story (Not that I’m not going to write one. If someone else wants to use parts of this, well, I’d be entertained.) comes up with a way to reliably do big things. Of course, nobody listens because that’s known to be impossible and also because using magic to accomplish things gets interpreted as an insult, but when the entire population of Earth gets an invitation to move to his moon colony, the entire thing becomes obvious in retrospect.

Before it reached the planetary colonization stage, the one-man space program started out pretty small-scale.
All he had to do was convince a few people to do completely routine things by using vastly unnecessary amounts of magic. And, more importantly, to do it predictably. If someone regularly decides to negate gravity around the part of Earth’s surface containing their house in order to make their chair more comfortable, that would be overkill. But as long as the chair is already fine the way it is, there’s no reason they can’t do it. And if the protagonist happens to know that gravity is going to be turned off for a while above his neighbor’s house, there’s no reason he can’t take advantage of it.

Single stage to orbit gets a lot easier without gravity, especially if you can get the necessary speed a similar way. Convince a second neighbor that as long as they’re opening an umbrella with magic anyway, they might as well do it the cool way by imparting upward momentum to everything above them. And it is cool; you get to watch a hole get punched through the clouds when a cylinder of cloud moves out and back in. (And the rocket gets extra speed. But they probably don’t even need to know that.)

(And maybe convince a third neighbor that thunderstorms are an extremely useful method of convincing the cat to stay indoors. Or something. As long as it gives that second person a reason to open an umbrella.) As long as none of the people involved are doing anything they especially need magic for, there’s arbitrarily large amounts of free energy available. You can magic away gravity, or air resistance, or pretty much anything standing in your way. The only catch is that each step has to involve someone doing something ordinary by completely uncalled-for methods.

The protagonist’s name is, of course, Rube Goldberg.

You Know More Things Than Laplace’s Demon

So, it turns out the average human knows more facts than some varieties of omniscient being.

Picture the least omniscient thing that still deserves that adjective. I’m thinking of something a couple notches up from that.
The thing I’m thinking of is a hypothetical something that knows everything there is to know about the universe and all the objects in it, from quarks to galaxies and beyond. And it knows nothing else. Obviously this thing can fairly be called omniscient. But it doesn’t necessarily have to be intelligent. It might be, or it might have no concept at all of logic or reasoning.

The thing I’m talking about is basically identical to (the weakest possible version of) Laplace’s Demon. So I’ll call it that. It knows everything knowable about the state of the universe and the laws of physics. It can extrapolate backward to see exactly how Socrates died, so you bet it knows he was mortal. And it knows exactly how many humans die. But it might not understand the “therefore” in “all men are mortal, Socrates is a man, therefore Socrates is mortal.”

It can check throughout all of time and space and make sure that every time there are two of something, and two more of that thing, there are four of it. But it doesn’t know that 2+2=4, because it doesn’t understand “equals.” It doesn’t need to. (If it can think, that won’t hurt it. The one in the Trivia Contest could. But it doesn’t need to think to be a functioning Laplace’s Demon.)

I claim that this version of Laplace’s Demon knows at most a countable infinite number of things.
In our universe, it doesn’t make much sense to divide distances into smaller and smaller pieces forever. It’s conceivable that some universe might work that way, but ours doesn’t. In ours, you hit a limit, somewhere around one decillionth of a centimeter. Anything smaller than that limit is literally unmeasurable, as Laplace’s demon knows better than anyone. Two locations separated by less distance than that might as well be the same place, and that is an actual fact about the universe not about measurement technology. (Current tech is nowhere near that good anyway.) And in any finite distance, there is only a finite number of Planck lengths.

Same thing with time. The universe started a long time ago, and the shortest measurable length of time is very small. There have been an awful lot of Planck time intervals since the universe started, and there will be an awful lot more before it ends. But it’s still a finite number.

I, like most currently existing humans, don’t know whether or not the universe is infinite in size. (Laplace’s Demon does.) If so, that’s a countable infinity. It’ll be infinite in the sense of “go one Planck length at a time, keep going forever. For any given point, you’ll be at that point eventually, but you’ll never run out of space.” This is the smallest possible infinity.
It is a property of infinity that infinity times itself is the same size of infinity*, so if the universe goes on forever in all three dimensions and we have to cube that, then we’re still talking about the smallest possible infinity.

Laplace’s Demon knows everything about every point in the universe at every time. It can look at any space-time coordinates and tell you exactly what particle, if any, was/will be there. (Can there be multiple particles within the Planck distance of each other? I should probably know that, but I don’t. If so, the Demon can tell you exactly which ones were where. Anyway, I’d be surprised if there can be an infinite number of particles in the same Planck volume and shocked if it can be an uncountable infinity.)

We’re multiplying a countable infinity (from the size of the universe, measured in Planck units) by large finite numbers (from the duration of the universe, and the number and type of particles in each space). So the result is still a countable infinity. And if the universe turns out to not go on forever, then Laplace’s Demon only knows a finite number of things. That’s almost impressively small.

By comparison, you (yes, you) know an uncountably infinite number of true things. Watch this: “For any real number greater than three, that number is greater than two.” That single obvious sentence generates an infinite number of things you know. You know that 4>2, that 3.001>2, that π>2, and so on. There are an infinite number of things you know, and that infinity, the uncountable number of real numbers above three, is bigger than the countable infinity of things that the Demon knew. Since humans have the awesome and underrated power of abstract thought, we don’t need to limit our knowledge to concrete facts.

In fact (and you can skip this part if you want to avoid math vocabulary), I’m pretty sure that the set of true statements that I know has cardinality Beth Omega. That’s big, even for an infinity.
Let Xn be the set of maps from Xn-1 to Xn-1. X0 is the natural numbers. The number of maps is the cardinality of Xn.  Since each Xn is the powerset of the one before, the cardinality of Xn is  \bethn.

\beth is the Hebrew letter Beth; \beth0 is the cardinality of the natural numbers. n can be any finite natural number.  \bethn means 2בn-1. (That’s two to the power of the previous infinity.) The smallest infinity larger than all \bethn is called \beth_\omega. Lower case omegas don’t look nearly as cool as the capital ones. For any n,  \bethn+1 is bigger than  \bethn. So the cardinality of the union of Xn over all n must be greater than any \bethn. It is therefore at least \beth_\omega

I happen to know that every map in that infinite union is the image of another one. (Trivially true: For an arbitrary map in Xn, there is a map in Xn+1 that just turns all maps in Xn into that map. So any given map in Xn (for any n) is the image of something.) Therefore, there are at least Beth Omega true statements I can claim to know.**

Even without the confusing part, I think it’s safe to say that a normal human knows an uncountably infinitely larger amount of true things than that omniscient Demon did. (No comment on who gets a better selection of things.)
So; next time you want to win an Internet argument by appealing to credibility, make this claim. Tell people your knowledge exceeds that of some omniscient beings, and that it would be impossible to list all the things you know even if you had infinite time to do it inYou’re welcome.

*Sort of. The cardinality of an infinite set crossed with itself is equal to the cardinality of that set, but the usual kind of multiplication doesn’t really make sense with infinities. But if you promise not to repeat this in front of any mathematicians and definitely promise not to tell people that said it, then sure. Infinity times itself is the same size of infinity.

**The previous version of this claimed that the number of continuous functions from Xn to Xn is \bethn, which is a smaller infinity than \bethn+1. It feels like that’s probably true for some form of continuity, but I didn’t think it through. If the old version actually is right, I got lucky. Would this be a good time to mention that the number of things I don’t know is also hugely infinite?

I bet he broke the sound barrier

(Spoilers for the Dark Knight Rises.)

At the end of the movie, Batman and his allies fail to stop the nuclear bomb, so he flies it out over the bay to prevent it from wiping out Gotham. People on the Internet correctly noted that this is definitely underestimating the range at which nuclear weapons can cause Bad Stuff to happen. But there definitely exists some distance such that the bomb going off at that range wouldn’t hurt anyone in Gotham to any instantly noticeable degree.

At the football scene, Dr. Scientist states that it’s a neutron bomb with a blast radius of six miles. Bane said it was a four-megaton bomb, and those numbers do not go well together. I’ll take the nuclear physicist’s word over Bane’s, and we can find out how far Batman must have gone.

I don’t fully understand why the equations I’m using are the right ones (I would have expected inverse squares instead of weird fractional exponents), but Wikipedia cited this as a source so it probably works. Anyway, for a neutron bomb (unlike most nuclear weapons) half the energy goes to radiation and does not affect the size of the blast radius. If the blast radius (in km) is (Yield/2.5kt)^.33, then a six-mile blast radius means 2410 kilotons. Double that, because half the energy is going into radiation instead of blast, and it’d take a 4.82 megaton bomb. So Bane wasn’t that far off after all.

We can determine how far Batman would have to fly it. It was obviously over six miles, or everyone watching it would have been blasted backward and very possibly killed just from the air. But it must have been even farther than that, because there were unprotected humans with a clear line of sight to the blast. When it went off, they cheered. They didn’t appear to have been covered in burns or struck blind or anything.

For a 4.8 Mt neutron bomb, the thermal radiation would hand out third degree burns within about a ten-mile radius. But the other effects of the thermal radiation reach go further than that.

The people on the bridge were all watching Batman fly the bomb away. And they were looking directly at it when it went off. (Note: Never do that.) Fortunately for them, it went off during the day instead of at night. Dilated pupils would be a bad thing. Unfortunately for them, it was a pretty clear day. A one-megaton nuke would temporarily blind people from 13 miles away. That’s for a regular nuclear weapon where 5% of the energy goes to radiation. For a neutron bomb, that number is 50%, leaving proportionately less for thermal radiation. (To make up for that, the neutron radiation is worse, but that has a smaller range anyway.)

Since a two-megaton neutron bomb would blind people from a bit over 13 miles, a 4.82-megaton one would blind people from 13√(4.82/2) miles away.  That’s a bit over 20 miles. Hopefully he flew it farther than that, but any closer and the kids in the school bus would definitely not have been cheering. So this gives us a good lower bound on his speed.

The timer on the bomb showed 1:57 when Batman attached it to his flying car. Then he kissed Catwoman and told Commissioner Gordon his not-remotely-secret-anymore identity and started the car, and by the time he took off it had been over 40 seconds. That leaves less than 77 seconds for him to fly it more than 20 miles. Apparently the Bat can fly at 935 miles an hour, which is well over the speed of sound. So I win my bet, muahaha.

Maybe there are other effects with wider reaches. Like, Gotham is probably going to have some severe fallout problems later. If there are effects that would show up on screen as soon as the bomb goes off and have a wider range than the flash blindness, Batman would have had to take the bomb even farther. But 20 miles in 77 seconds gives us a lower bound: He must have gone at least that fast.

(And it just occurred to me that I should be timing from when he passed the bridge instead of when he took off, since the bridge is where the people were. But the movie didn’t show the timer position for that, so I’ll just say it’s definitely significantly higher than 935 and use that number anyway.)

Incidentally, if he covered that much distance in that little time, then his average acceleration was 20/77*3600/77 miles per hour per second. Or 5.4 m/s^2, about half a gee. Which is much more survivable than I was expecting.
But the air resistance against the giant spherical bomb would be .5*1.225 kg/m^3*(418 m/s)^2*.47*π*.75^2 = 88.885 kiloNewtons. That’s about ten tons of force just from the air pushing back against the bomb. And the hovercraft can apparently fly at over 935 miles an hour while dragging that behind it. Too bad it got nuked, because that must be a seriously awesome machine.

Well, that escalated quickly

Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king,
“Do you know what I know—”

Said the advocatus diaboli,
“I object to hearsay!
It’s not admissible, mighty king.
I object to hearsay.
He says, he says, only what he’s heard
From the animals and the wind.
From the animals and the wind.”

Said the lawyer for the little shepherd boy,
“No, this is not hearsay.
By rule 801 section b
This cannot be hearsay.
There is, there is, no prior statement here
Said by any person at all.
Said by any person at all.”

Said the other guy to the mighty king,
“Ask him how he knows this.
The witness will admit, mighty king.
Ask him how he knows this.
The source, the source, for everything he says
It was just a voice on the wind.
It was just a voice on the wind.”

Said the king to the lawyers pro and con,
“How are you both so wrong?
I will overrule both of you.
How are you both so wrong?
Those rules, those rules, don’t apply to me.
If I say so, he’ll testify.
If I say so, he’ll testify.” 

Said the king to the people everywhere,
“Listen to what I say.
I’m in charge, people everywhere.
Listen to what I say.
Because, because, they have displeased the court,
Lawyers now are banned from the realm.
Lawyers now are banned from the realm.


And they all lived happily ever after, to the end of their days.