In the cool evening of the eastern district of the Republic of Zenith, an unusually fat man was laughing loudly while wheezing in between breaths like someone who had just discovered oxygen was optional.
He was sitting on a wooden bench at the edge of his wheat farm, overlooking the dramatic drop down from his elevated property.
From this vantage point one could see the lodgings scattered below, the bustling markets in the distance, and the town sprawling across the eastern district like a painting.
"Mister, you are too funny! Ha ha ha! I can't even breathe properly anymore. And how do you even know these things about my personal life? It's like you lived with us for decades! Ha ha ha!"
The fat man named Thomas Miller in his overall farmer dress clutched his chest and heaved heavily, his pudgy and fatty cheeks turning red as wine from all the continuous laughter.
In his fifty-eight years of existence, he genuinely didn't think he had ever laughed like this before.
