I Accuse

Rufus Green buried his face in his arms and wept on the antique dining room table.

The Colonel’s laugh, a meat cleaver chopping into wet wood, danced heartlessly in Rufus’s ears. The old wraith was seated again in his wheelchair (but just how much did that barbarous Methuselan really need the damned thing anyway? Yet another question Rufus would never have the answer to), mustard-colored uniform spotless as always, clutching that precious sandalwood box Rufus’s father had given his life to retrieve.

How long have I been made a fool of?

A cruel smile crossed the Colonel’s lips. He croaked like a dying toad. “Youve not been buggered til you’ve been buggered by the best, boy. Your father understood that. Yes, buggering was what he wrote the book on.”

The old man’s next laugh died in a gurgle as Rufus buried the dagger in his throat, almost against his will.

He looked with shock at his hands. They were a satisfying scarlet hue.

“Who’s buggered now, uncle?”

He and the box were in Delhi in a fortnight.

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