In my country, they still tell the tale of the old man living in the woods. One cold dark night, there is a mighty pounding at the door. The old man opens it, and there stands a dark figure, armour clad and blood stained, weapon drawn, fierce and terrible. “I am Tyranny!” the figure says. “Will you bow to me?”

The old man steps aside, and waves the figure into his home. For many days, Tyranny treats the home as his own, and the old man as his slave. He washes, cooks, cleans and feeds his unwanted and unwelcome guest. And then one day, when he does not expect it, Tyranny eats his evening meal and falls dead at the table, victim of an old mans poison.

With some effort, the old man lifts and drags the tall muscular carcass and his many weapons, out into the woods. He digs a deep pit, and throws them in, covering them with dirt. Then at last, he returns to his little home. He closes the door behind him, leans back on it, and finally speaks “No,” he says. “I will not bow.”

This old man is a hero in my country.