They came into town on a crank handcar, checking the lines and, as I was to learn later that evening, looking for some ‘sport.’
For most men, looking for sport meant finding an agreeable female.
Not for these men. Their tastes ran to something a little viler.
They found me sitting at the train station, smoking and waiting for the summer sun to set. There was a fair chance of a lycanthrope in the area, and I was anxious to get my hunt underway. My pensive attitude, youthful appearance, and distant expression must have made these men think that I was a simpleton and that as such, I might be fine to speak with regarding the satisfying of their base desires.
They introduced themselves to me, and they inquired as to whether there might not be any Irishmen about.
When I responded no, not of late, that most of them resided in Lowell and Boston, they then asked if there were any men of African descent, though they did not use such a politick term.
I confess, I feigned idiocy at that point and asked in a none too bright manner what they might want such men for.
“To hunt,” was the answer I received.
I nodded with a simpering smile and told them yes, there were several on my father’s farm.
The men were all too eager to follow me home.
They chatted amongst themselves as we went, and when we arrived, I invited them inside. I sat them down in the parlor and told them I would inform my father that we had guests.
My father was missing, and presumed dead, and had been for some time.
While they helped themselves to some bourbon, I found my garrote and brought it back with me. I waited until they were well in their cups, and then I called them one at a time into the kitchen, ostensibly to speak with my father.
Instead, I garroted each in turn.
In the morning, after I dined with the corpses, I brought them out to the center of my land and left the bodies to rot.
Not a one of them deserved a burial.
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