In 1901, I had the good fortune to visit China for a short time. This was prior to the great siege of the foreign legations, and the madness that followed. While in the country, I made an enemy of a Protestant missionary, nothing which bothered me at the time. Who was I to care about a man who made his living selling his god?
When it was time for me to leave, I thanked the many men and women who had helped me further my education. Shortly after my return to Cross, I received a stereograph photo in the mail. It was a picture of severed heads. Specifically, the severed heads of some of those who had become my friends.
A short note was included, a note written by the missionary. The man bragged about how he had convinced the local government to put my friends to death.
I traveled through darkness and shadows, leap-frogging my way across the world until I arrived in the man’s bedroom.
While his wife and children watched, I sawed his head from his neck and returned home with it. I have it buried beneath my pig sty, where it shall remain until his god succeeds in finding it.
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