You keep corralling the pieces and throwing them back down into the basement. You’ve tried everything to keep them down there—burying them; locking the basement door; nailing it shut and stuffing rags in the cracks, but time and again you turn around, and there’s a lower leg with foot partially attached dragging itself across your kitchen to the refrigerator. This corpse is making your house pretty uncomfortable. And it won't leave.
The day he comes, you’re pretty nervous, because he wants to walk through the whole house. You go with him down into the basement, where he sees the liquefying corpse. But you are encouraged to see it lying there dead as dead can be. It doesn’t even twitch.
So the billionaire finishes his walk-through and leaves, promising to come back the next day. The moment he’s out the door, all heck breaks loose. Six or seven body parts come rampaging up the stairs, and it takes you most of the night to get them back down in the basement and get the house cleaned up. You are now a nervous wreck.
In the morning the doorbell rings, and the billionaire is on your front porch with his suitcase. He tells you, “The only way to get this job done is for me to move in. And it’s going to take a lot of work on your part. Are you good with that?” What do you tell him?
All of the above is my paraphrase of Samuel Rutherford’s letter to James Lindsay of Sept. 7, 1637, part of which is below: