Amontillado Revisited - Day 8

It was a dreary eve, and you would think me mad, what I did on that dreary eve. But is it so mad, when one has been so egregiously wronged, to seek justice, to regain moral balance? I was mulling about in Mrs. Zyygyltrosky's urban mechanics for non majors when I caught his eye. I believe it was for the first time - the first time I'd really looked at him - his one eye like a lazy eye with a glaze over it... And his other eye, with its dry, cracked surface, yet red and teeming with energy, leering at me while his neighbor lay dormant. I saw that eye, his left eye, to me his right. To Bog, it was his Soul!

I approached him after class, carrying my satchel eagerly. I burst with pleasure as I spoke - to him it must have seemed like the excited pleasure of a schoolboy meeting a new friend...

"Hey, I guess we have two classes togehter. Mrs. Zyygyltrosky and Professor Downpressor too!" I said to him. "My name's Basalt. What's yours?"

He gave me a sideways glance as he continued to stride towards his next engagement. "Sorient Glass," he replied curtly, his left eye blazing at me with the splendor of the Mediterranean sun in the afternoon.

"Sorient... I know why you chose Mrs. Zyygyltrosky... and I have something you might be interested in..." I tensed up inside, the hatred incurred by his left eye searing my gut and tearing at my lungs. "It's amontillado."

"Amontillado?! In this country?! Why, forgive my disbelief," he began to reply with a pompous tint beginning to shade his voice, no doubt emanating from the eye, "but I don't fancy you the type to afford such an extravagance. Nor do I suspect you have exclusive access to the kind of cavernous domain required to store amontillado properly."

My plan, my mad plan, then began to materialize in my head. Is it truly insanity? Madness? It was all caused by that eye! It stared at me with callousness, and it radiated superficiality with an intensity designed to melt the real world into a shiny crystalline state, that it may look as sparkling and false as the interior of a poorly designed Detroitian automobile! I did, in fact, know of such a cavernous, desolate place, and divinely, I happened to have a key artifact in my very pocket, which I pulled out for both of dear Sorient's variegated optic organs to examine. "It's the pumice emblem from the cask. And into the caverns, should you desire, we can travel this very evening. Meet me at the library at midnight."

The pumice I had found months before in a curiosity shop, and my mind's eye must have seen it in my pocket, knowing full well what my soul's intention was with that left eye glaring into it like a bank robber entering a vault. I improvised the whole delicious, and just, plan instantly - as if spontaneously generated out of thin air. Is it madness, or divine inspiration on behalf of a just cause?! It is for Bog to decide...

I ran from Sorient before his shocked visage could muster a reply. I knew he would be there at midnight. And there he was. I waited in the shadows until he appeared. He stood there, nervously shifting and staring at his watch, wondering where I was. I leapt out of the shadows and ushered him into the library. He protested, but I quickly glanced back at him with enough menace in my mortal eyes to make him realize the amontillado was to be sought out on my terms.

He followed me to the elevator, where we got on and descended in complete darkness for ten minutes.

"Basalt, this elevator is beginning to smell of mitre, and it is making me feel quite ill... Perhaps we should ascend. I do not fancy becoming ill this fortnight, when I have so many social engagements..."

I interjected sarcastically, "Is this not the kind of cavernous domain required to store amontillado properly?"

"But I haven't seen aught outside this elevator, which is no doubt surrounded by rock encrusted with mitre!" Just as he finished his sentence, the elevator stopped. I grinned, and he re-rigidified his flustered expression as he accompanied me into the recesses of the Boortez Subterranean Wing of the library, which contained self-help books, polemics written by broadcast personalities, biographies of hair metal bands, and the septic tank of the University.