So this is my annual submission to the lit magazine of our school. I thought it might make a nice little change from the usual diet of unrequited love poems.

Why is it that the fast lane is closest to oncoming traffic? Or for that matter, the saying, “might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.” I suppose that same sense of enterprising criminality explains why I poisoned Mr. Bains. After all, I had just finished embezzling his life savings. Yes, I was his secretary. But I was only a temp, really, and I wasn’t sleeping with him. The thought repulses me, actually.

He was a tubby little man who delighted in destroying the lives of those who irritated him and then profiting on the resultant chaos. I was too bland to catch his attention, so I had no craving for revenge. CSI strikes me as overly dramatic, so no, I wasn’t copying primetime. I just felt he needed to be reprimanded.

Even that sounds too self-righteous. He had a lot of money and was misusing it. I decided that if his wealth rested in more responsible hands, he may not be such a horrible fink. Without messing about with Swiss bank accounts or changing the cash into jewels, I forged a timely series of withdrawal slips and kept the bills between my mattress and the box springs. Escape would be easy, as everyone knew I had plans to move to France in a few months to join family.

Halfway through my endeavor, I realized Bains would never learn. He would use his attempted comeuppance as a tool, playing the victim while happily swindling innocents. If he was dead, that wouldn’t be a problem, and the world would be a nicer place. My first foray into less than legal activities went smashingly well, so why not shear a little closer; press the pedal a little harder?

His drinking habits weren’t exactly a secret, so poisoning opportunities popped happily to the fore. After hearing him gripe about the doctor’s warnings about his heart, I smiled benignly and plotted out my ideas. The next day I soaked a cigar in lemon liqueur and topped up his office bottle. A week after I quit and hopped on my plane, money in hand, Bains finally succumbed to his sweet tooth.

The nicotine from the cigar triggered a heart attack. There was no serious autopsy. The coroner’s daughter was a particularly bitter ex of Bains’. Do I feel guilt? Not really. Life’s too good to ruin with false regrets. Would you like a liqueur with your coffee? No? Your loss; the amaretto is quite good.