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   In the sweet, smoke filled air of the café , amongst the soft and ample cushions, The Omar of the Red Sand held captive the lazy imaginations of the docile crowd with his poetic insight in to their everyday lives. The Omar of the Red Sand was one of the less renown, but no less respectable, Omars, and the café was able to afford his services on a regular basis Tonight he ended his set with a selection from “The Threnody of Iblis”:

     -- Many years shall pass and come;

                            The Emir of Contention, his reign undone.

                             But dawns blessed light Must fade to night

                                                                 And in his dusk did turn to blight

              -- Arrives a hero, born too soon;

                To rescue the night from lights cruel boon,

               Rend the hand from the hall,

               Save the child from his thrall.

                From her chains, the moon, he saves

                And gives the sun unto the grave.

                 --

     The crowd clapped politely as the Omar left the stage, disappearing in to the cascading sheets behind the stage. In the corner of the parlor Mazin lapped up the last remains of his tea from the decorative serving saucer it was delivered it on.

     “Let it not be said that you waste even the smallest drop Mazin.” Yasir, sitting across from him, said. “In the desert, it is most wise that ever drop of water, let alone sweet-tea such as this, be treated as the last one you will ever see.” He said, wiping his hands and mouth clean on his pillow. “Do not look at me like that Yasir” he said preempting his friend’s comments. “One day I will be the one treating you to the entertainment. And let me tell you, it will make you red to think that you once considered this a fine café.”

     “How do you plan on doing that?” Yasir asked.

     “The Poem the Omar just read; I am the one to restore night to the land, when I do so I will be rich beyond measure, with a palace bigger then this city.”

    “With all due respect, Mazin, you do not strike me as the heroic type depicted in the poem.”

    “I am not so crazy Yasir. How many men do you know, whose mother gave birth to them after only eight months? Surly I am the hero who was born too soon.”

     “That is an interesting fact, Mazin, but what about this: My mother gave birth to me when she was only fifteen. She often times would tell me that having a child so soon ruined her life. Surly that must mean that I am the hero who was born too soon, right?”

   Mazin stroked his thin beard for a moment, and then his eyes light up with joy. ”I have an idea my friend.” Reaching in to his pocket he removed a small leather satchel. He dumped the contents on the table between them; five dinar clinked to the table. “We will make a wager. We will see who can fulfill the prophecies in the poem the best. We will have one day to complete as many as we can. Whoever does so, wins. We will meet back here the night after next.”

   Yasir did not have to think long on the wager; the threat of losing five dinar was inconsequential to him. The two men shook hands on the deal, and departed the café.

   Mazin and Yasir met again, two days later, as they had agreed. Much had changed in such a short amount of time. The Sultan Siraj Haroun al-Rashid had fallen from his terrace window, and his wife spirited off in the night. The city was in mourning, and the café reflected it, the usual colorful draperies were now black.

   “We are in for some troubled times ahead my friend” Mazin said, though he was definitively indifferent towards the troubles of others. “For me though, there is at least one thing that has gone as planned. I believed I have won our bet.”

   “So you think, but I too have been