Memoirs of an Evil Vizier, Volume I: The Tale of the Cursed Wig

The next morning I rose very early and shook the invalid odalisque awake before I'd even finished tying my turban...

Whether you're a pirate or a pasha, or just a humble slave trader and aspiring evil vizier, when you see a zombie odalisque clawing at your window, your first impulse is...

The first thing we heard was a dying woman’s scream. To be greeted thus when approaching a medical practice is, in conventional circumstances, a very poor sign indeed.

I woke to a fine, bright morning, and lingered in bed watching sunlight filter through my thin curtains, contemplating the beautiful rugs on my walls, and idly plotting to win the sultan's confidence, become his evil vizier, and gain de facto control of his almost endless empire.

I searched everywhere: behind the bags of couscous and neatly hung tools of torture in my closet, under the elaborately decorated cushions of my sales reception room . . .

Despite our circuitous route home, which took us under bridges and through dark alleys, with repeated crossings of the street to ensure the shadows of buildings, trees, and statues almost continuously protected us from photodamage

The barren hill could only be interpreted as an utterly senseless location for any utility purporting to make liquid deep below the earth accessible to the public...

I slept fitfully that night, my thoughts returning over and over to the dead virgin sex slave.

I was in good humor as I led the hooded sex slave up the road to the sultan's harem, enjoying the unseasonably comfortable weather and threatening her gently as we strolled beneath a row of palms.