The Itch of a Fiend

"Blasted elephantitis," he remarked to no one in particular for the tavern was empty. Gregory's Hall was not a savory place to be come nightfall.


Stanley walked in with his typical fervor. Slamming the door and such nonsense.

"Silence!" belched Johnson, "you let in more cold air with your entrances than the bitch wind herself."

Stanley had secretly been hoping that Johnson wouldn't be at Gregory's Hall tonight. But it was meant to be, people would whisper later, as Stanley knew a thing or two about matters across town. Johnson ordered his 7th.

A Peculiar Visit

"Indubitably," said Johnson, as he leaned forward slightly and tipped his top-hat with his right hand. He wore his beard in the New Hartford style, as the gentleman were in that whaling town. Thin along the jaw, and full in the moustache. His gloves were of the whitest satin, his mannerisms and diction equally as pure. And although the natural shortening of his name - John - was common for the time, nobody dared refer to Johnson in this manner.

It was common knowledge amongst the villagers that his genteel nature was but a thin veneer. Johnson hesitated not the slightest to mete out a severe thrashing for even the most innocent breach of protocol. for the time, nobody dared refer to Johnson in this manner.

Johnson walked down the long alley Gregory's Hall aware of the eyes on him. His hand was in his pocket, and in that hand he rolled a gold coin. 12:30. Must meet Evans. Tax season in New Haven was always the time he felt most hated of all, but that only made him enjoy his mutton more the greater.

Later in the evening, as Johnson worked away on a pint of old ale, his 5th of the night, he had no way of knowing about the happenings across town which would eventually change the course of his own life. Johnson took another liberal sip, sighed, and scratched his right gonad which had been tickling him since the morning.