I demanded him of the truth, and he replied in rhetoric. So typical, I told myself. And what could I have done? I couldn’t have cut off his head to make an example for the later generations. Nor could I have tortured him in secrecy to quench my thirst for the pain of the outspoken ignorant, for then my conscience would have become unquenchable. So I walked away, disappointed in all the realism of the world, wondering why it is that even in fiction one can’t kill a man sociopathically and free themselves of the desires such as that of virtue. Then suddenly, in all awe and astonishment, I remembered that I could. So I took a sword of such sharpness that only the writer could have conceived and threw it at the back of the ignorant man with such skill that one only finds in unreal tales, and went grinning back to my grand palace to join the fictitious orgy.