About This Book
Sire? Sire!
Over here, in the boiling oil, just kicking my heels up while I can, ha ha.
O King, his name mightn't be Scheherazade, but if he was a she, it might well have been Scheherazade, or, otherwise, something like Sinbad the Sailor, or whatnot. You never know.
He'd still be singing for his supper or else be despatched if he didn't keep your interest by spinning out his oh-pull-this-one-it's-got-bells-on yarns. If you had ever been listening, you might even admit to a chuckle or two over his Talls shaggy-dogs, especially about the misadventures of the White called Wi – don't ask Wi, Sire! – and all those hundreds of other shonky, ass-headed characters of olde Lanka in this now-as-then time.
After all, there would have been some of your own people who had hired this Wi to perform their hearts' mischievous desires, so nobody's blameless around here. Except you, of course. Also, maybe you should cherish this Wi as the world-champeen kidnappee, nabbee, swipee of all time. (Who could surpass his being lifted for ransom three times in three minutes, without having a real talent for it?) Even the ordinary people have come to love the godful way the Wi wipes those dirty dishes in Dominic's Eatery… but, no, it is probably better you don't leave your comfies to go and watch him in action, Sire.
You might eat something there. Better keep sending your food tasters and hope one iron-guts of them lives to tell the tale.
