Trumbor

The gathering of the clan was a departure from tradition. By electing two leaders and surgically joining them together, the collective membership had -apart from losing its mind-, finally caused the world to notice them.

Scribes from far and wide descended on the unprecedented gathering, all of them wanting any sort of exclusive.

One scribe was too keen, and slips in between the chairs, to be garrotted by another scribe sitting down at the same time. However, luckily for the now seated scribe, his deceased colleague's question paper gently flutters into his hands. Not believing his luck, but happy to take it anyway, he quickly springs up. "Er, I have some questions," he blurts out.

"Yes, the boring scribe in the fifth row!" Trumbor says, cleaning its teeth of that morning's breakfast: char lady, cocker spaniel, and a brace of peasants.

"How will you tackle the unequal distribution of wealth?" 

"That's easy. Taxes are now cut for everyone." Trumbor, in unison says. Immediately causing uproar in the clan.

"Everyone?" Many of the gathered scribes ask at the same time.

"Yes, everyone." Trumbor says. Irritation clearly already getting the better of them.

"How about the poo-," another scribe begins.

"Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. What was that? Weeeeeeeeeeeee. Can't hear you. Guards!"