So I wouldn’t be the Old Man of the Mountain, father of all assassins, but rather would I be his friend the poet who sat under a tree by the fountai... in the royal courtyard, paid a monthly stipend in gold with which to drink and think about sex and to write about thinking and drinking.After all who now can recall the political reasons or pure greed which motivated the drug addled murders of the hashishins- while every one even now recognize at least two lines of the poet’s verse. “A loaf of. She looks up and takes a hold of the bronze knocker with chilled, shaking fingers. She slams the knocker against the door three times, crashes barely heard above the booming of thunder above.No answer.She goes to knock again when the door swings inward with a hiss of wind. She looks up and sees him.He holds the door open with one hand, his other holding up his white downy towel around his midsection. He looks out into the storm, surprised to see someone standing on his front porch. He sees her. More

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