I am NOT talkin' 'bout the table by the KITCHEN!  said the Princess in the ghetto voice she sometimes like to affect, because it made all the little people think she was from tough circumstances but prevailed through dint of her hard work and determination instead of merely being born lucky enough to be beautiful. The King chuckled glossily at the Princess's ebonical joke. 

But is it hard, the King asked solemenly. The fame? The expectations?  

The Princess grew pensive. There is one thing, she said tremulously. A silken strand of hair fell across her linelessly glossy forehead. The hair gleamed in the studio lights, bespeaking health and pro-v vitamin complex, and nary a whiff of chemicals or heat or scorched hair smell normally assoicated with de-napification. 

When I buy something, they charge me more because of who I am, the Princess lamented in a pained whisper.  Because they do that, they say "Oh, this mug is $2, but for the Princess, or for the  King, it is $10."  It is so unfair, she pouted, her lucious glossy pink lips trembling. So unfair, she repeated, her glossy locks gleaming.

Yes, the King soothed the Princess. It is difficult to pay the price of fame. He looked mournful that there could be such injustice visited on the world, and especially on such a beautiful Princess. 

And the King  looked with glossy, sorrowful eloquence at his subjects at home, and they knew his pain was real and this unfairness that the King and the Princess suffered was as painful as any injustice they themselves had ever suffered. The subjects understood that even the most venerated royalty wish only to be treated like everyone else   --  except of course with the higher pay, better healthcare, and frequently dispensed gifts from the great retail courtiers that was their due as Kings and Princesses.

Yes, the Princess sniffed, and the King inclined his head with great dignity and restraint.   

The King did not suggest the greedy mug sellers be punished, for he knew that someday the ruffians would receive their karmic reward for such graceless theft, their pedantic penury.   They would lose their mug selling stalls as surely as the moneychangers were thrown from the temple by the righteously angry Jesus; they would be called upon to defend themselves and be reduced to bestial cries of lament that they could not thieve their way into the Kingdom. 

They would be hunted by the righteous, lose their loved ones and be left to die shivering and alone in the back alleys of the cities, piteously crying for a mercy they refused to show the Princess who wished only for a fair price for her mug. 

They would bring upon themselves days of fire and smoke, nights of broken glass and brownshirted club-wielding brutes, the wails of sirens, women and children. They would shed unending tears. They would stand helpless before their shattered shop windows and howl for vengeance, turning neighbor against desperate neighbor as the planes raced overhead, ferrying the Captains and the Kings and Princesses to their castles in faraway lands until the tumult and the shouting died, leaving the mugsellers to gaze sorrowfully around them and wishing only for the glossy gleaming days of the past, the days of the $2 mug, to return.