With a slight touch of grim satisfaction, I surveyed the poor, writhing creature bound before me.

“What do you want from me?” he demanded weakly, edging into the back of his folding chair.

“A little reimbusement of sorts,” I replied smoothly. “You were the one who enflamed my love of literature. You were the one who told me to make it my life; you were the one who told me I was destined for great things.” I spat at his feet. "Is this great, living no better than a rat!

“You opened my eyes to great works, but blinded them of any opportunity to raise myself from this hell.” I came closer, placing my hands on his shoulders. "I thought it only fair to return the favor.

“You always said we had to back up ideas with literary examples,” I said over his screams as I reenacted Act III, scene 7 of King Lear.

He sat there, letting his tears mix with blood. I glanced at my soiled hands, carelessly smeared them on the back of his immaculate shirt, shrugged & said, “A little water will wash me clean of this act.”