Linguist

I have a tale about justice, death, and a linguist. However, the season and the weather probably was yet another character in this story. The heat had been unbearable for more than two weeks already. It was so hot that the pavement was scorching feet through the sole of shoes if you stood too long. Due to lack of sleep and constant discomfort, people were grumpy and hot-headed. Even the smallest incident could lead to cursing and even fights. The aforementioned linguist was the grumpiest of them all. He had been this way for years. He hated people. the only thing he liked about humans was language and to his mind people actually misused and treated it badly nowadays. He liked to be in the basement of the library looking through the old scrolls of text - analyzing and admiring them. There was, however, a tiny, nudging problem - the university had assigned him an assistant, and that young fag just couldn't shut up and work in silence for more than 5 minutes. So, as the heat rose for two more degrees and even the basement of the library turned into a little hell on the earth, the linguist just lost it. He felt his head spin in anger and dizziness of heat and assistant's constant blabbing. He grabbed the paper-knife so tight that his knuckles went white and suddenly he stabbed it in the assistant's chest and breathed out in relief as he went silent.