I know how Harold Penderman will die. I know because I caused it; or, more properly, I will have caused it. His crime, his transgression, that doesn’t matter. Suffice to say it was a capital crime, and judgment is nigh.
He will find himself tied by wrists and ankles, tied with strong rope, sailor’s rope, tied to posts or pins driven deep into the ground. Under him will lie a fire-pit, and that fire-pit will somehow be lit aflame. And then, finally, Harold Penderman will burn.
I know not when or how these will happen, only that it will happen.
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