In this tiny kingdom of Broodendam lived a man, Baron Pastei. Pastei's ancestors had been road builders. Tasked by the King of the time, the Baron's grandfather had built city streets and bridges, hewing stone with his own two hands. His father had subsequently funded and coordinated efforts to drive long piles into the muck, fill sloughs with gravel, and build dikes and causeways over the waterlogged terrain of the surrounding countryside. The result of all this labour and all this investment had been a network of infrastructure that helped keep life in Broodendam moving. For this, the Pasteis were made lords.

But the current Baron Pastei had contributed little, and had become bored. He collected a meagre tithe from the kingdom's tax revenues to pay for maintenance of the kingdom's roads, which he had inherited responsibility for. While he lived quite comfortably on a large salary in a fine house – better off than the majority of citizens – he couldn't help but wondering, didn't he deserve more?

From the top of his ample, three-story home, he looked down upon the city, and thought:

Whenever someone wants to go somewhere, they use my roads. When the farmer brings his wheat to the city, they use my roads. When the miller delivers flour to the baker, he uses my roads. The baker brings her wares to market, again, she uses my road. None of this would be possible without my roads, and yet, they all make profit off of my roads. What do I get in return? I must labour to maintain these roads for those who abrade them with their ungrateful feet!

So the Baron got it in his head that part of the value of that wheat, and that flour, and that bread, belonged to him. After all, his family had built the roads, and without the roads, making all the bread in the city would be impossible.

So, the Baron Pastei went to the palace to visit King Troef. The Baron explained his thinking to the King. Because the two were friends, and because the Pastei family had done so much for the kingdom, the King was receptive to the Baron's thinking:

"Perhaps the current roads tithe is insufficient recompense. I will allow you to collect tolls – at a figure you deem appropriate – on any roads which your family constructed and maintains."

The Baron thanked his King and hurried off to enact his plans.

Within days, the city was filled with checkpoints, and the highways of the surrounding countryside mired by tollbooths. At every checkpoint, officious guards asked citizens and merchants alike: Where are you going? To do what? What are you carrying? The guards then consulted a series of ponderous charts to determine what toll was owed by the person wishing to pass though.

Most of the time, the toll was only a few stuivers, so most were able to pay, though they grumbled bitterly. The poorest were turned away from checkpoints entirely, now trapped within their part of the city. The lineups snarled the city, and long queues of people waiting to pay tolls snaked around avenues. Still, some citizens (usually the wealthier ones) continued to lionize Baron Pastei: "Well, I suppose his family did build these roads and bridges, so it is his right to charge us..."

But the worst was yet to come.

One morning, a farmer arrived at the city, intending to sell her wheat to the miller she worked with. When she arrived at the toll booth, the guards consulted some newer-looking charts. After a moment, one of them turned to face her:

"Twenty guilders."

The farmer was gobsmacked: "WHAT?!? Twenty guilders? I don't have that much money lying around for road tolls!"

The meaty guard crossed his arms and wrinkled his nose, "That's the toll."

As the shock began to wear off, the farmer thought she might cry, her entire livelihood now in jeopardy.

"Alternatively," the guard suggested, "you can sell the wheat directly to the Association of Thoroughfares & Transport for ten guilders."

"But that's only 60% of what I would get from the miller!" objected the farmer.

The guard said nothing, merely staring at her intractably, arms folded. So the farmer heaved a sigh and handed over her load of wheat, for ten guilders.

Within a few weeks, the farmer was on the verge of insolvency, so she went to visit Baron Pastei himself. The farmer explained her predicament, and the Baron – uncharacteristically – listened to her woes patiently.

"You must understand," the Baron implored, "that I do need to pay for extensive maintenance of all these roads and highways, which is not cheap – hence the tolls. May I suggest a compromise? If you'll excuse my bluntness, you're not a young woman anymore. Let me buy your farm from you for nine-hundred guilders, you can retire, and my people will take over your farming operation."

The farmer had never conceived of that much money in her entire life. Her bones ached from decades of hard work, and she had no children to take over the farm, so the idea of retirement was appealing. After some consideration, she agreed to the Baron's terms, and sold her farm.

A couple of months passed, and similar circumstances allowed the Baron's Association of Thoroughfares & Transport to acquire another farm, a windmill, and a bakery. Now Baron Pastei had everything he needed to really leverage his advantage.