Alex Smith

For the purpose of requesting an early death, a man with aching ankles was seated (on a breakwater bollard in Cape Town) opposite Baochi, the concubine who had in an age before been sent by a thin fool via post to a wise plagiarist as an offering of something approximating friendship. “Such a hot afternoon,” Boachi said, “Are you sure you want to die?” Although she was a lazy assassin, Baochi 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’s worth noting 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. “Basil, darling, I’m in no mood for killing … I will tell you some little tale of each of my twenty blades, and then if you’re still set on a gruesome demise by the Icosi-jian (jian is Mandarin for scissors), well, I suppose I’ll have to indulge you.” Since Baochi was superstitious about starting at the beginning, she spoke first of blade number two, that of a pair of sewing scissors, which she claimed to have plucked from the painting Degas only called his ‘genre picture’, though in spite of him, the artist, commentators ever after have insisted the painting be named The Rape, and still others claim it must depict a scene from a novel by Zola. “And this blade, aah, I soo delight in it Basil! From Thomas Jefferson’s scissors, the pair he used in 1819 to cut up his Bible and make it what he thought Jesus would have liked: a book without a virgin birth, a resurrection and that whole bunch of far-fetched miracles.” Baochi chortled and admired the steel damascened blade and then turned her attention to the more provincial forth blade, one that snick-snacked in a scene from Boyhood. The fifth of the blades was the most peculiar, it was a shimmering length of chemical compound from those first shears to splice DNA. Thus continued Baochi until Basil and his aching ankles knew the tale of the full score. “Now, what is your decision?” Baochi asked. “Unchanged,” Basil replied, “though I have this last question: why icosi? Why twenty blades, when one would surely suffice?” The answer filled Basil with satisfaction, so unexpected and comforting he almost changed his mind, but no: “Do it now,” he said, “while I’m still happy.” He closed his eyes and listened to the swish of the waves against bollards and readied himself for an end and Baochi yawned. “Aah, surely you’re too warm to die, why must it be today? I don’t usually ask my clients, it makes no difference to me I’m a professional, so you don’t have to reply if you prefer not to.” For the last time in his life, Basil sighed fat as a leopard’s purr. “It must; my bones are chock-full of cancer; and far greater is the gruesomeness my own cells have in stall for me than the worst death your icosi-scissors could ever hope to achieve.” And so with elemental grace Baochi rose and slew him.

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