He sulks the hardest sulks, the leader does. He lets his chin rest on his chest and his shoulders slump. He emits sighs of high volume and intensity for seventy minutes. The leader will rise to continue his sulk, but only if someone asks him what the matter is. Then he goes to the window and looks into the middle distance, saying nothing. He frowns. He screws his lips up into a poutier pout than you or I have ever before witnessed. He invokes oaths upon the heavens, upon hell, upon a single god and other, lesser gods, but does so without providing explanation. The leader’s sulks can be provoked by the slightest disappointment or infelicity—say, butter not covering the entire surface area of a piece of his toast in the morning, or an insufficiently sincere compliment given to him regarding the gold leaf wallpaper that adorns the interior of his private jet. His sulks can be terminated by diversions: television, a steak, professional jesters, or the promise of an audience with important men.