Once upon a time lived a man named Fence. Fence was a respectable individual, hence the name, since akin to how his farm animals had utmost respect for the fence around his property, his peers had respect for him, for Fence. He helped a lot of folk, and was known as a down-to-Earth, pragmatic but kind, respectable man. He mastered, first and foremost, the art of building fences.
One day, the village had a visitor. It was a rather shady-looking businessman who had left the city, a respectable man nonetheless, just like Fence. The visitor's name was unknown, but the townfolk called him Gates, because they respected his demeanor just like they respected Fence, and gates were also respectable, perhaps even more so than fences.
Once the two met, Fence asked him what he did for a living.
Gates replied that he ran a factory.
"A factory which builds gates?" Fence asked, jokingly.
"No," Gates replied, "it's a factory for building fences. Big, metal ones, ornate and firm. The prebuilt type that you buy in segments. The tall, respectable species of fence that keeps intruders out and farm animals in. The kind of fence that won't let you see inside someone else's property, and which won't fall over at a mere push. The kind of fence you will never build, ever, in your miserable excuse of an existence, Fence."
Fence stood tall even after such belittlement, now with a slightly grazed expression frowning his otherwise respectable face. He then said:
"At least I live up to my name, Gates."
