} The figure we know as Jack-In-The-Box is but an anglicised corruption
} of his real name, Yachinda Bochs. Yachinda is a figure well known
} through Buddhist history (even though the name sounds a bit Jewish.
} Funny that.). 'Yachinda the meditator' they'd call him. For days
} on end he would just sit, cross legged, palms upward, taking it all in.
} Of course, being a minority as he was, many people made fun of him.
} They shouted names, threw rocks, poked him with sticks. But still,
} he wouldn't budge. Calm, quiet, and peaceful, he would ignore the
} madness going on around him.
} One day some particularly nasty people took some elaborate steps
} toward annoying Yachinda. If he derived so much pleasure from the
} outside world, they determined in their cruelty to shut him out of it.
} With a few pieces of wood, a few nails, and a lot of foolishness, they
} built a rough wooden box around Yachinda. Still, he did not move.
} People still passed by, hurling insults, and rocks. One enterprising
} young fool but a hole in the side of the box so once again they
} could poke him with sticks. Which, of course, they did. Often.
} To his credit, Yachinda didn't so much as bat a serene eyelid.
} The more Yachinda did nothing, the more agitated his agitators
} became. Eventually, they desired to annoy him constantly. Non-stop.
} Twenty-Four hours a day. After pondering for some time how this could
} be achieved, one of the fools gained inspiration from the hole that
} had been cut in the side of the box. 'A Machine!' he exclaimed.
} 'Much easier than poking with sticks,' he said rapidly, drawing
} crude diagrams of his invention. "Just turn this handle here,
} connected to sticks and rocks and coarse bushes, here, which will in
} turn hit Yachinda, here,' he said, with a flourish. The other fools
} soon agreed. And so it was. Over the next few days they toiled
} tirelessly, collecting the required materials, and putting together
} the machine. The whole time, Yachinda ignored them with as much
} disdain as a cat would.
} Finally, it was done. The machine was built, the staffing agreements
} for the handle-turning had been determined (after much bickering, of
} course), and they began. Day in, day out, turning the handle, hurting
} Yachinda, turning the handle, hurting Yachinda. Who didn't react.
} No, he sat, still as a rock, deep in his meditation.
} By day four though, things were starting to change. There is only
} so much a human being can bear....
} It was crowded at the town square, being mid-day this was not entirely
} unexpected. People were milling around engaged in their daily
} business, and a handle-turner had just started on his shift. Within
} seconds, it was over. There was a rumble in the box, and instantly
} the figure of Yachinda, somewhat battered, appeared. He let out a
} scream of such vengeance, such power, that the entire population of
} the square clasped their hands to their ears. The cry rang out but for
} a second, but to the fools it seemed like a lifetime. They staggered
} and fell, hands clasped to their eyes in a futile gesture, and died.
} All of them. The power that such a man could wield was unheard of,
} and new soon spread of the occurrence. He gained an almost religious
} significance, and was idolised by generation after generation.
} Even to this day can examples of his worshipping can be found in
} small boxes with a handle on the side given to children, reliving
} that fateful moment all those years ago...
} You owe the Oracle a new spring.