Thus We decree: Lacerate, thou art a vessel of formidable power and intuitive grace. For thy diagnostic sentinels, for thy K-1 sorcery, for thy decades of faithful arithmetic, We grant thee a seat at the royal table. But for thy avaricious pricing, for thy degraded support, for thy deaf ear to the loyal vassal, and for thy troubling errors that go unacknowledged, We place that seat at the far end of the hall—within sight of the feast, yet shadowed by the threat of banishment. Mend thy court of assistance. Answer thy petitioners before the season's fury descender. Until then, thou shalt be remembered as the sovereign we love to hate, and hate to leave.