i let a sultan into my room the other day. he and his harem of female cockroaches snuggled up to me on the bed as i was reading a story of a young princess kidnapped by an evil horde, waiting for the rescue promised by her knight in not so shining armor. i told them the story.

listened the sultan, enrapt in the web of the yarn that i spun, as they went with the knight through countless adventures, slogging wearily through mud and mist, traversing many leagues of arid land, to be opposed at every step by hordes of orcs and fae and whatnot.

his harem was mildly amused. they roamed and chittered among the sheets, clacking their mandibles in appreciation of that sordid tale, and raising their antennae in indignation when they learned of the princess' demise - oh no, not a death as we would have it. it is the death of her soul, which comes from the surrender to the evil lurking within their midst.

and the story was finished. the sultan bowed in appreciation of my time, and i bowed in appreciation of his ears. he was the only one who would listen. i was the only one who would talk to him. i led him out of the room, to go back doing what it is that cockroaches usually do. at the door we bowed to each other again. he touched his antennae to my forehead, and scampered away.

there goes my friend, i thought, and closed the door to go to sleep.