... there was a man.
The man was not a commoner. By that, we really mean he did not share the same thoughts, the same visions, as the common people. He ate as commoners ate; he slept as commoners slept. He lived among them, though they shunned him for his ramblings, his gesticulatings, his frenzied, wild-eyed rants, and his incessant drawings in the sand, in the mud, or - failing all else - in thin air.
The commoners treasured the days of silence - days when he retreated to his shelter to stare at a box. Literally, the man would stare intently at a box, as though it was the source of his insights - his muse, if you will.
And for days on end, there would only be staring - some scratching of growing facial hair, perhaps; but mostly staring - until eventually, "Eureka!", an epiphany! A new revelation! And now he must rant and draw and ramble and gesticulate all about it to the rest of his village!
One evening, as the business in the bar slowed to a crawl, there sat the man alone at a table, by the wall. The last few remaining patrons were merrily downing pints and slapping backs and laughing and hooting and ogling the bar girl.
Suddenly the man stood up with such ferocity that he banged his knees against the table.
He bent over for a bit to rub his knees, wincing in pain. Luckily, his fellow patrons were too busy enjoying themselves to notice his little pratfall.
Carefully he straightened up and, clearing his throat, announced to the listening crowd, "I will make a box."
As the drinking and slapping and laughing and hooting and ogling continued, the man came to realize that the crowd wasn't actually listening to him. He also came to realize that drastic measures were needed if he were to capture the attention of this tipsy crowd.
He thought to hurdle over a table or two while making his way over to them, but thought the better of it when his knees reminded him of his clumsiness. He half-jogged, half-limped over to the crowd, squeezed his way through to the table, propped himself up on it, and stood up on the table, all the while ignoring the bewildered looks from those around him.
"I will MAKE a BOX!"
They looked at each other, and chuckles turned into laughter. One shouted, "Then go and make one! Don't spoil our merriment with your carpentry now!"
The man was not to be deterred. He continued, "I will make a box - one that can model thousands of persons uniquely and realistically; one that can model different business philosophies and mentalities; one that can model this" - he lifted with great efforts a giant book with the ominous letters C, B, and A on the front - "completely and accurately; one that can model the flex of wood, the speed of rubber, and the friction of ice at sixty frames per second, at a level of detail no man has ever dreamt of!"
As he rambled on, the laughter around him subsided and turned into murmurs. Murmurs turned into shocked gasps. Gasps turned into derisive cries.
"Sod off!"
"You've gone insane, haven't you?!"
"Lay off the drinks for once, mate!"
Amidst of the hurls of insults another man walked into the bar. Nobody knew who he was, or where he came from - he was a stranger to the village. He dressed in a long, white robe, and sported a long, white beard.
"What you mean, my young friend," he said, his warm voice surfacing to the top of the noise, "is you want to build a Hockey Simulator."
The bar fell silent, as the crowd turned in bemusement to the one who spoke such wise words. The man looked at the stranger at the door, and replied with a sparkle in his eyes.
"Precisely."
