Seven with one stroke
A soldier was back from the wars. The teahouse was agog.
‘One day, on the Northern Frontiers, I slew no less than six
infidels, all with red beards.’
There was a roar of applause.
‘You can’t cap that one, Mulla,’ said a wag who had just
tricked Nasrudin into swearing that he would tell the literal
truth for the next twenty-four hours.
The Mulla drew himself up to his full height.
‘I do not boast much, and I have sworn to tell the truth. Very
well: know, all of you, that I have myself slain seven unbelievers,
with a single stroke.’
He stalked out, as everyone looked at him with new respect,
back to his room, where seven unbelieving beetles lay in the
shadow of his fly-swatter.