Sentence The Fivehundredandsixtythird

Fresh from the Public Baths, dressed like his target and identical in appearance, The Intruder followed Hamish MacDonald – that is, the real Hamish MacDonald – from his home to his place of work, having observed the affectionate parting from his wife, whom The Intruder knew was Jessie (oh, he knew everything there was to be known about her, for he was assiduous in his gathering of information and facts about anyone he needed to know intimately, whether to destroy them, or seduce them) and that the couple had no children – well, he mused, perhaps that could be rectified – and knowing MacDonald's work routine, having studied his life and habits, dickering into every facet of the man, and knew his routine as well as if it were his own already; The Intruder knew he could safely leave him there and return later, when the man had finished his last day of employment; and so, at six o'clock, he was outside, inconspicuously ready, when MacDonald came out and headed for The Clansman, down by the Kelvin, his regular pub where he always drank one pint of heavy and two glasses of Johnny Walker, after which, his slightly faltering steps – though he was by no means drunk – headed towards his home and his wife; the attack took only seconds, a wire garrotte cast over his head and drawn tight, cutting into his throat, with his assailant's knee jammed into the small of his back, in less than a minute Hamish MacDonald was dead – Long Live Hamish MacDonald, who wrapped his victim's body in weighted hessian sacks and tied them tightly, then slid and pushed the bundle over the edge of the river, where it hung like a chad for a moment before dropping almost noiselessly into the black waters below; Hamish MacDonald – for he can no longer be referred to as the Intruder AKA Reichsmarshall Hermann Goering, he is now the only Hamish MacDonald in this story – strolled, nonchalant, obdurate and utterly remorseless, and feeling as if he had compressed two days' cavalcade of events into one, 48 hours into 24, towards his home and his waiting wife, let himself in with his key, and called out "am hame, hen!" and when his wife appeared, with floury
hands and a smudge on her pretty nose, he wrapped her in his arms and gave her a passionate kiss; Jessie MacDonald laughed as she pulled her head back and gazed up at her 'husband' and asked: "whut's thon fur?" and when he drew from his pocket a silver bracelet he had acquired earlier that day, in one of his quotidian moneyless acquisition transactions, she cooed with delight and when he said "Happy Anniversary, ma ain true luve," she kissed him back, equally passionately, fiercely even! and secure in the knowledge that he could play her like a squeezebox, the nidicolous cuckoo was safe and in the nest!