Over the years I've taken seven students, men and women both who sought to improve their prowess. Money is not important to me, but I require one form of payment- at the end of their apprenticeship, they shall write an autobiography for my personal collection, and shall pour their greatest effort into the work.
After they finished I bound the book for them, using their own handwritten pages, and placing each upon my bookshelf.
When I was arrested my name made the headlines of each major paper in the country. As a literary celebrity, I was accustomed to the attention.
And at my trial, the judge hammered his gavel, staring into my eyes and asking the question on the mind of everyone in the room before announcing his sentence.
“Have you no soul?”
But that’s where they’re wrong.
On my bookshelf, bound in their own skin, I have seven.