I remember quite well the day I adopted my nephew Quasimodo. It was December 25 1490, the evening of the day we fried Penelope, gypsy that had seduced my cousin, at the stake. The gypsies wanted their revenge on us, and in the night my sister and her lover's house was burnt to the ground. They perished in the fire, and were unrecognizable husks of their former selves. My nephew however survived, the gypsies absconded with him, and planned to raise him as their own. It was Penelope's mother that had taken him, in revenge for me killing her baby. I spilled her gypsy blood on the ground. God! What a glorious feeling, the burgundy puddle seemed to look even more beautiful as she lie in it. Now my nephew was ugly, and bore the sin of being born out of wedlock, and probably wouldn't amount to much, but since my wife was barren, we would raise him as our own. After all no child should be alone on Christmas, even a heartless monster like me believes so. Quasimodo let out a huge wail, and I handed him off to my wife to comfort.
