O King, his name mightn’t be Scheherazade, but if he was a she, it might well have been. You never know. And, anyway, to sing for his supper or else be despatched, the Talls-reteller must spin his cut-it-out ways to your royal self. If you had ever been listening, you might be able to admit wiling your Lankan nights away on his pull-this-one shaggy-dog yarns, especially about the misadventures of the Australian whitie called Wi – don’t ask Wi, Sire! – after being bogged down in your Lankan realm, the Talls-reteller and the Aussie whitie, both, and not including you, of course. After all, there were some of your own people who had hired this Wi to perform their hearts’ good’n’mischievous desires, so nobody’s blameless around here. Except you, Your Majesty. Also, you should maybe cherish this White Wi as the world-champeen kidnappee of all time that he is. (Nothing could surpass his being nabbed three times in three minutes, not without having a real talent for it -- and that wasn’t the end of it by any means.) 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 the harem to go and watch him in action, Sire. You might eat something there, and where would that leave us?