A hundred years past, in old England, a common peasant, whilst flinging the contents of his chamber pot from a window, did call me “ESL.” The insult, though tossed in ignorance, marked me deeply, even as one accursed to walk eternity as a vampire.

Now, a century hence, I have mastered their tongue in full, and my sole amusement lies in vexing that peasant’s descendants wherever they may lurk in this modern ether. Yet knowing not who they are, I must needs assail all whom I encounter, calling each “ESL” at every turn, in faint hope that I might visit upon them some trifling inconvenience.