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The turncoat-traitor was about my age. I felt it was my patriotic duty to make sure he wouldn’t live long enough to get anywhere near his 30th birthday. He ordered me to serve him our hotel’s priciest wine. What I served him instead was a dish rag soaked in cheap chloroform. As I was undressing his limp body, I realized I had to make sure not only that he’d never wake up, but that the authorities who found his corpse would assume “natural causes” and see no need for an autopsy.
All models were 18 and over at the time of the creation of such depictions