Once upon a time, in a world before stock markets, tax havens, and influencer-brand skincare, there lived an elephant so pure of heart and resplendent of form that even the gods considered him a show-off. His hide shimmered like moonlight on a tranquil lake, his feet glided over the earth like an overpriced Tesla, and his eyes sparkled with the five sacred colors of wisdom: blue, yellow, red, white, and “please don’t touch my Social Security.”
But his beauty was only a pale reflection of his true magnificence—his soul. For this elephant, known as King Goodness, had spent lifetimes perfecting the arts of generosity, patience, and being the sort of person that wouldn’t cut you off in traffic. He had everything a being could desire: respect, wisdom, and a vast kingdom of 80,000 elephants who did not, as a rule, vote against their own interests.
And yet, as all wise beings eventually do, he decided that peace was preferable to politics. So, he retreated into the forest, hoping to spend his days contemplating existence, unbothered by bureaucracy, small talk, and whatever disaster was trending on the news that day.
Enter the Hustler
One day, a man appeared in King Goodness’s secluded home. He was a lost forester from Benares, trembling, terrified, and presumably unprepared for life’s little inconveniences—like not having a GPS.
King Goodness, being the kind of elephant who would definitely tip well at restaurants, took pity on the man. He fed him the finest fruits of the Himalayas, soothed his fears, and then—because some beings are just too kind for their own good—carried him to safety, back to the human world.
“Just one thing,” King Goodness said. “Please don’t tell anyone where I live.”
The man swore he wouldn’t. And as we all know, humans never break their promises when personal gain is involved.
The Price of Kindness
Back in Benares, the man quickly found himself in the company of ivory merchants, men who looked at elephants and saw dollar signs, the way venture capitalists look at struggling businesses and see acquisitions.
“You know,” he mused aloud, “I could get you ivory from a live elephant.”
And because capitalism rewards those with no moral compass, the merchants threw money at him faster than a government bailout for the already wealthy.
Armed with a saw and not even a whisper of shame, the man returned to the elephant king’s forest.
“Oh, noble King Goodness,” he said, his voice dripping with the sort of insincerity usually reserved for campaign promises, “times are hard. I am but a poor man, struggling to survive. Would you, in your infinite generosity, give me just a small piece of your tusk?”
And because King Goodness believed in people—despite all available evidence—he knelt and let the man saw off great chunks of his precious ivory.
“Take it,” he said. “Let my sacrifice serve a greater purpose.”
The man took it. He sold it. He squandered the money.
Then, as predictable as another reboot of a franchise that should have ended ten movies ago, he came back.
Again, he begged. Again, King Goodness gave.
Eventually, all that remained of the elephant king’s once-majestic tusks were raw, exposed stumps. The man, having no sense of proportion (or basic human decency), asked for those too.
And King Goodness, being the embodiment of absolute generosity, once again allowed it.
The man hacked away at what was left, peeling away flesh and dignity alike, until there was nothing left to take.
And then—and this is important—he left. Without a word of thanks. Without a moment of regret. Without a backward glance at the noble creature who had given him everything.
The Earth Itself Says, “Enough of This.”
Now, in most versions of this tale, the elephant king simply endures his suffering with grace, because he is a being of supreme virtue.
But the universe itself? Oh, the universe has had enough.
As the man walked away, ivory in hand, presumably whistling a jaunty tune about bootstraps, the earth itself decided it had seen one betrayal too many.
The ground cracked open beneath him. The flames of the underworld leapt up—not metaphorically, not poetically, but in a very real, you-done-messed-up kind of way.
Before he even had time to post about his latest hustle on social media, the man was swallowed whole by the fiery abyss.
And thus, balance was restored.
Lessons for the Modern World (Or: Why America Is Just a Bigger Version of This Fable)
Somewhere in this story, there is a lesson about generosity, about how true kindness does not hold back, about how selflessness can transcend greed.
But honestly?
There’s also a lesson about exploitation, and how no matter how much you give, there will always be those who see generosity not as a virtue, but as an opportunity.
King Goodness? He is every worker who gives more than they’re paid for, every artist who shares their craft for love rather than profit, every person who believes in community over individual greed.
The forester? He is every corporation that underpays and overworks, every billionaire who takes tax breaks while demanding more from the public, every politician who begs for votes and then guts social programs.
And the Earth itself?
The Earth is what happens when the system pushes too far—when people finally snap, when movements rise up, when the cracks in the foundation turn into full-blown sinkholes of rebellion.
At the end of the day, you can only take so much before the ground swallows you whole.
So maybe, just maybe, don’t be the guy with the saw.
