Last night, the spiteful little monsters held a mockery of a funeral for my dear brother, which the devil himself would have been pleased with. The vile guests at this satanic ritual consisted of a selection of local thieves, briggands, and murderers; a number of whores from the local bawdy house; and—worst of all—a group of academics from the Royal Society.
At the end of this abomination, I walked into full view of the revelers and waited for them to see the avenging angel whose sworn duty it is to rage against them with the full righteous might of our Lord and Saviour, and punish them for their foul sins (me, that is). Watching their faces turn white with fear before they scattered, screaming for their lives (except that infuriating drunk, Jack, who simply slid down beneath a table and began scratching at his nether regions) was the first moment of happiness I have experienced since 1668, when I finally succeeded in teaching the natives on the island that held me prisoner to play whist.
Next week, I strike! I cannot even describe what joy it brings me to think that before long, I shall be plunging my dagger into the bellies of my enemies, and ripping their foul innards out—that their last sight on this earth will be of the very depths of their own sinful bodies.
P.S. The rash is gone, mostly. There's just a bit of a reddish area now on my bottom. It still itches a bit, but I don't think it's anything to worry about—probably just a reaction to my new cotton breeches. Quite a relief, and a lesson not to make any more purchases in cheapside! :)