No one was happier for August Savage than myself when he was given the job of librarian at the Cross Library. He was a man who was passionate about books and the many forms in which they came. August was a decent man, one of the few I didn’t look down upon for attending Sunday services on a regular basis.
On the morning of December 3rd, I was on my way to pay him a visit at the library. I had heard there was a rumor about someone wishing to donate a large number of books to the library, and this was done through the hard work of August.
When I entered the library, I found August standing at the desk, throttling a man who was obviously dead.
August, who was almost always impeccably attired, was in a state of disarray. His hair was out of place, his eyes were wide, and he was, quite literally, foaming at the mouth.
I rushed to his side, fearful that he was in the grip of some hideous ailment or madness, and then shocked to find out he was not. August pushed his hair back into place, adjusted his attire, and grinned at me as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“He didn’t want to give me the books, Duncan, not after he learned that I would see most of them.” August laughed and shook his head. “But I wanted them. I wanted them. I just have to sign for him, and then the books will be mine. I’ll keep the best at home, mind you, and a few here. But the others, those I’ll sell.”
I looked down at the dead man, a man whose only crime was not wanting his gift of books to be sold.
I strangled August with his own tie and left the bodies where they lay.
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