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The Catacombs Of Revenge

Judge. Jury. Executioner.

By Stephanie J. BradberryPublished about a month ago 3 min read
The Catacombs Of Revenge
Photo by Belper Unitarians on Unsplash

If I could talk, here is what I would say. Both Montressor and Fortunato are bumbling fools. They disturbed my sleep and solitude. And in the end, they both got their just due.

It all started when that idiot Montressor picked away at my outer shell to dismantle part of my core. He jabbed a sharp point into a portion of my mortar that was already failing to hold together the artistry of his ancestors. Chip after chip, more of me crumbled to the stone that supported my mass for centuries. Instead of coming to repair me, he was tearing me apart.

I just needed to bide my time to exact my revenge. Montressor is so arrogant. He thinks his family motto nemo me impune lacessit goes one way. But really no one attacks me with impunity. After all, these words crown my head and my domain. My white salt petered skin exudes toxic purity. Montressor evoked my rage. He will pay.

Whatever this man was up to, he should have done it elsewhere. Like most things in his life, Montressor did a piss poor job. I’m sure he thought he was executing his plan with perfection. His form lacked grace. His masonry lacked polish. His presence and work were more like a wrecking ball.

Turns out Montressor did come back to complete what he started. That gnat returned to my chambers dressed as a true clown. The jingle jangle of the bell on his head served as a warning of his second coming. How I wanted to immediately paint myself red with his innards. A nice cardinal red to match the tone in his jester suit. But I delayed my assault since he brought company.

For almost an hour I suffered through all that coughing and chatter as Fortunato and Montressor descended into my catacombs like Dante’s descent through hell. Their banter and one-upmanship culminating in screams. Fortunato was so stupid to not realize his name forsake him. As Montressor endlessly talked on, I listened. I listened to the words. I listened to the silences. I listened to the hesitations. I listened to the lies. I listened to the mockery. I listened to the arrogance. It was clear I would never hear comradery or true wit.

Once Montressor pushed Fortunato into the opening he previously made in my chest, it was clear what he came to do. Instead of waiting to acknowledge a natural death, Montresor wanted to force Fortunato’s bones to rest in a different family’s home.

These walls talked once Fortunato’s voice ceased. How ironic to call on the love of God in the heart of darkness.

The promising cask of Amontillado tempted Fortunato to a spirited death by dehydration. As for Montressor, the promised cask would be his casket, even if it would be 50 years later.

Montressor’s family shield is now my weapon. The foot crushing a rampant serpent whose fangs are imbedded in the heel depicts his fate. His coat of arms will be his iron maiden.

Like a serpent’s venom, the effects of my walls would wick away at Montressor’s life decade after decade. I’m sure in the end he wished for a swifter providence like Fortunato. Or at least one where he was in a mental stupor to numb the reversal of fate.

I willingly absorbed Fortunato into me. And as Montressor ascended to the continued debauchery of Carnival, I gently misted a mixture of Fortunato’s niter-infused blood into his nostrils.

In the end, both men got their just due based on how they lived their life. Montressor, a mason of practicality, snuffed out Fortunato by walling him up. Fortunato, a mason of ritual, poisoned Montressor, blood for blood.

About The Author

Stephanie is a freelance writer and editor, educator and consultant. To learn more, visit

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About the Creator

Stephanie J. Bradberry

I have a passion for literature and anime. And I love everything involving academia, health, metaphysics and entrepreneurship. During my free time I enjoy nature, crocheting, reading, my kiddos, and writing.

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Comments (2)

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  • Novel Allen16 days ago

    Brutal and eloquent. Scary and deep. "How ironic to call on the love of God in the heart of darkness". I always wonder this myself.

  • Burn Bookabout a month ago

    Hey, great work on this!

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