A Most Unpleasant Passer-by

Dearest Diary,
 
Today I met a man upon the path between cities. I had decided not to speak a word to him, though it appeared he had other plans. His intentions unclear to me, the man struck up a conversation. I continually attempted to step past him with an, "ah yes, how quaint, fare-thee-well," but alas it was not destined to be so easy to escape the dreadful conversation that followed. He asked of me my business on the high road, and I told him that such information was not his to hold. Unfortunately, it appeared that this attempt at dissusion only emboldened him. As he redoubled his efforts to "speak wit' ye kind sir," I found myself growing ever more impatient at the triviality of his blathering. As fate would have it, the cretin found out the hard way that I do not enjoy peasants touching my lovely high cheekbones with their grubby, foul-smelling, cow-befouled fingers. In one swift motion, I, Tarsus C. Malleus (the Magnificent hero of this story!) swept this filthy, unworthy degenerate off of his feet in one single motion, utilizing my prowess in some ancient martial art I can't be bothered to recall the name of. As he fell to the ground, I drew my rapier, and, in one swift motion, I cleft the man in twain. His bloody corpse hit the paving stones with a wet "thud," and I stood triumphant. As I wiped my blade off on the only clean part of the dead man's grimy shirt, I noticed that the horrid wretch had indeed gotten the last laugh; there was a drop of blood on my custom-made, basilisk leather boots! If these had been a peasant's boots, I suppose I would have simply purchased a new pair. However, these boots were created on commission for me by the late Alfred Laurent of Neverwinter (Gods rest his damned soul.) As I kicked the man's corpse in frustration, more blood splattered onto drow-made silk pants. I have never been mortified to a greater degree than I was today. I am now more convinced than ever that the dead have a mind of their own.