The Cask of Amontillado
            
             ... For half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat.
             This is the grim tale lies behind my identity, which until now prevented me to go down the catacombs of the Montresors. To-day this I say to confess the guilt that dampens my soul and curses my spirit every moment the long night return to my memory.
             I, Montresor, an Italian and a descendant of a noble family, never was meant to be subservient to Fortunato. I too am expert in wines. Fortunato always bragged to be the only connoisseur when it comes to wines that he by no means knew he had already stepped upon me like a massive foot. He had constantly done this to me without even comprehending that he still was vulnerable to the fatal bite of a serpent he had just been crushing as depicted perfectly in our family's coat of arms. No, it wasn't the injuries that disturbed my sanity then; he could block my trades, he could be the best, he could be richer than I once was – but... he could belittle not one of the Montresors of their expertise. The single insult is like a dagger that pierced not my flesh, but my dignity. It is also like a bottle of Amontillado that fed even more my revenge. This Amontillado is rare but potent enough to intoxicate the deeper portion of my soul. With this drunkenness was I able to accomplish my revenge.
             As I had related in my story, Fortunato was not invited but his pride along with the intoxication readily touched the bait, which is my Amontillado. However, my friend was not only drunk, he also had severe cough; nevertheless he insisted on tasting the Amontillado. He loved my Amontillado more than his life. The Amontillado on the carnival season, the casks of wines intermingling with puncheons, and even the depth of the catacomb are all doubtful and frankly laid before his eyes but he would not want to be defeated. What might keep him moving down the depths of the crypt is not at all the p...