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<span style="font-family:Dancing Script"><span style="font-size: 12px">"Do you still want death or have you tasted it enough?"<br/>
</span></span>​</div><span style="font-family:Dancing Script"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Libre Baskerville"><span style="font-size: 15px">Caius Cicero watched as the rain fell, pitter patter, on his windowsill. Sipping a fine white wine, a Domaine Ramonet Montrachet Grand Cru, with one hand, he traced his fingertips along the windowpane, his thoughts appropriately somber for the moment. Not that that moment would last long, knowing Caius, oops, erm, James. Yes, James. That was who we was playing this decade wasn't it? James Lincoln? A name so American, it was laughable. But Americans were a trusting lot, he had learned.</span></span></span></span><br/><span style="font-family:Dancing Script"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Libre Baskerville"></span></span></span><br/><span style="font-family:Dancing Script"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Libre Baskerville"><span style="font-size: 15px">Turning away from the window, tossing the white wine to shatter against the stone wall of his palatial home on the outskirts of the town of White Hills, Caius walked through his newest home, humming along to music that was being piped through the building. It was <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2Fn-pwPIRW9fY&amp;hash=ae9063c8d9f587021a36f25cefed356f" href="https://youtu.be/n-pwPIRW9fY" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14</a> in C-Sharp Minor. He had remembered meeting the eccentric Beethoven. A bore if he had ever met one. But he made fine music, if he said so himself. After two thousand years, he should be able to say what was or not good music.</span></span></span></span><br/><span style="font-family:Dancing Script"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Libre Baskerville"></span></span></span><br/><span style="font-family:Dancing Script"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Libre Baskerville"><span style="font-size: 15px">To fit the somber morning of today, James (yes, he had to play the part to the hilt) chose a dark gray jacket over a dark shirt and a silk white tie. The dress shoes, imported from Italy and hand-stitched, completed the ensemble. Turning around he gave himself a once over in the mirror. <i>Yes, that's you, you handsome devil.  </i>His reflection smiled back at him. With that finished, James exited the building after turning in a security code, although that was a game of irony if ever there was one. <i>Oh yes, please break in stupid mortal. </i>He thought without a hint of malice.</span></span></span></span><br/><span style="font-family:Dancing Script"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Libre Baskerville"></span></span></span><br/><span style="font-family:Dancing Script"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Libre Baskerville"><span style="font-size: 15px">Despite acting the part of a substitute teacher at White Hills High School, history no less, that did not mean he also had to act the part of destitute substitute teacher. His home on the outskirts of White Hills was a sprawling three story affair with enough privacy where he could enjoy his meals in private without snoopy neighbors bothering him. It also meant he could drive things like an <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fi.imgur.com%2F5om90d8.jpg&amp;hash=f12d15938a52e04a7a77f996b3648472" href="https://i.imgur.com/5om90d8.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Aston Martin</a> without it drawing too much attention. After all, he was Mr. Lincoln, coming from money. And here in the depths of New England outside New York City, well it wasn't too strange.</span></span></span></span><br/><span style="font-family:Dancing Script"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Libre Baskerville"></span></span></span><br/><span style="font-family:Dancing Script"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Libre Baskerville"><span style="font-size: 15px">Driving far too quickly for the narrow roads, but avoiding any unwanted attention from police, he made his way to the school and arrived five minutes before class was supposed to start. Humming the Sonata, he made his way in to the school, nodding here and there to passing teachers. Making his way to the classroom, he breezed in as the school bell was announcing the beginning of history class. And what a lovely way to start a day too, with the dry and rote history being shoveled down the throats of fatter and fatter Americans, their palate revolting against anything that smacked of educational soul food.</span></span></span></span><br/><span style="font-family:Dancing Script"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Libre Baskerville"></span></span></span><br/><span style="font-family:Dancing Script"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family:Libre Baskerville"><span style="font-size: 15px">"Good morning class!" He exhumed, his voice having but a hint of an English accent."I am Mr. Lincoln. Mrs. Sanford will be out of school the next few weeks because of a death in the family, I am sorry to say." He wasn't sorry, and Mrs. Sanford would return when she ran out of money in Las Vegas. But that was neither here nor there."Tell me, can anyone tell me how far along we are?"</span></span></span></span>