Read by Elizabeth Bower
“Such a hot afternoon,” Baochi said, “Are you sure you want to die?” Although she was a lazy assassin, Baochi had outlived the fool and the plagiarist by several centuries, insisting a daily bowl of raw beetroot Borscht was the cause of her ungodly longevity, (however, it must be noted that over time a good many who hankered after immortality had tried to emulate Baochi and subsist on borscht alone, but these aspirants merely suffered years of indigestion, pink-stained teeth and ruby-coloured urine, before a younger than average Death spared them from swallowing down any further bowls of Borscht).
Basil, the man with aching ankles, sighed and his sigh was fat like a leopard’s purr. “I’m so tired of my ankles aching,” he said, to which Baochi replied: “And I so weary from the heat.” She cooled herself with what appeared to be a giant fan, but closer inspection revealed the slats were blades, twenty of them, capable of simultaneous shredding; it was no fan then, rather a score of icosi-bladed scissors.
If you would like to read the rest of this story, please check out Weird Lies, the recent Arachne Press anthology in which it, and many other fantastical stories from the League archives, appears.
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