A certain Matt Jones decided to send a poisoned letter to me.

Any handwriting enthusiasts are welcome to send me their views on the state of mind of this individual. In the meantime, however, he is wanted. Someone smite him for me and earn my gratitude, would you? Oh, the toothpaste had dried by the time I reached it, by the way.

Wanted police officer Sam Ashwell dies.

Ah! Weasel-faced misfortune!

The cross-eyed, odourous living proof of why one should never carry an infant upside down or allow pregnant women to work in nuclear plants, otherwise known as Chris Till, otherwise known as PC Li Mu Bai (though the closet he will ever approach to leaping light-footed across bamboo groves will be when I shove a punt pole up his rear end), has unworthily stabbed me directly through my still-beating heart. Being exhausted from a day of high-minded labour and staunch-stomached coffee consumption, I rested within my chamber, secure in the knowledge that none could pass the firmly barred gates of TCR without my observing it. Yet from within, a serpent with a soul of thrice-refined bile plotted against me.

Upon a knock, I applied my beady eye to the spyhole, and, observing Chris, opened the door; since I had myself recently brought an end to his incompetent stumblings in the field he was so unworthy to compete within, I considered myself (ah! the foolishness!) safe from assault, and accordingly removed my hand from my oft-discharged pistols. If only I had listened to the instinctive wave of paranoia which thrummed through my very sinews at the inconstant and wary sound of his weak-wristed knocking! If only I had consulted the yarrow more frequently and thus forseen this calamity! If only the Five Elements had been more correctly balanced within the physical structure of this drool-chinned excuse for a policeman! (I speak, naturally, not of my good self, but of my disease-infested murderer. My elements are balanced to absolute harmony, even after death).

He inquired as to whether I was going out to the Market Hostel party that night, in a tone more calm than his usual twittering stream of incoherent nonsense. (Ah! I should have instantly suspected treachery!) After a brief conversation, however, he drew forth a knife and planted it (with a clumsiness unworthy of his namesake) into that cavity of my ribcage until recently reserved for that organ which, when in correct operation, drives the crimson fluid (now decorating my floor) around my perfectly-proportioned body.

Chris: Sam?
Knife: Splokth.
Heart: Squish, squirt squirt sqrchmkkchpchh.
Me: But you're dead.
Chris: No, I'm a police officer now.
Me: Fuck.
Heart: Convulse. Convulse. Squirt.
Chris (fleeing my posthumous wrath): Sorry.

Ah! All morning I had been training to avoid accurate and bone-breaking blows aimed by muscle-bound ruffians with thick necks and hairy stomachs. Had he directed a strike of undoubtable fury and unerring precision, guided by skill, practise and courage, with a sharp-edged buke-zukuri uchigatana of the most high quality at any of the instananeously lethal Points, I should have without hesitation avoided his weapon, torn it from his grasp and thrust it two-handed down his throat, or else broken his arm and then shot him in the back of the head as he lay weeping like a little girl upon the floor. Only the weak and ineffective appearance of my assailant, combined with the pathetic trajectory and style-less delivery of his infamous blow prevented his swift disarmament and subsequent demise. Upon this day, Chris has taught me a valuable lesson about the value of the useless:

In the state of Sung there is the district of Ching Shih, which is excellent for growing catalpas, cypresses and mulberry-trees. However, those more than a handspan or two around are cut down by people who want to make posts for their monkeys; those three of four spans about are cut down to make beams for great houses; those of seven to eight spans are cut down by lords and the wealthy who want single planks to form the side of their coffins. As a result, the trees do not live out the years Heaven has allotted them, but instead are cut down by the axe in the prime of their life. This is all the result of being useful!

Therefore the superior man does not seek to make progress; In this way he escapes calamity.

Fu Hsi's Ghost's Ghost's Ghost

P.S. Though the great King's Mafia may, like all great left-wing organisations, have destroyed itself by critical infighting (the majority of which instigated by my good self), next term we shall rise up with a furious vengeance (and cogent organisation), to crush all the feeble mafias that half-wittedly seek to oppose us like the insolent insects they know themselves to be.

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