'So now they want me to tell you something about this ‘author’ punk. Don’t get me wrong, I got nothing personal against the guy, but hell, he may be ‘the author’, but I’m the fharkin’ author-ity. They’re my damn stories and I’ll go orkan the moment anyone tries to tell you different, got it? Right, we got that square. Anyway, this so-called author, Jeremy Davies, he’s this punk who writes down things, things he gets told to write, see? He’s not much more than a glorified secretary, and he’s not that glorified to really give you the dope. He’s been to some college or somethin’ and done pretty well, but what’s that count for? Flat-faced naught, that’s what; particularly if he gets caught out cold in upper Queens on a Simsday night. Try bacheloring your way out those arts, with or without no honours… He’s had articles and some short stories and even poetry (don’t get me started on poetry…) that others have inflicted upon the world at various stages. But now, he’s got me, and things must be lookin’ as sweet as grape-juice guilder green for the sad old sap these days, see?

            But apart from that, the punk likes reading, watching films, working out and swimming, talking about philosophy, squeezing cute little furry animals until their eyes pop out (okay, I added that one, but I was getting bored), having fun with his family, and thinking up new and particularly devious ways to avoid ‘getting a real job.’ He told me that he’s had plenty of real jobs (including infantry soldier, hotel porter, train guard, bouncer, security guard, armoured truck driver) and, while they certainly were jobs, they didn’t feel all that real. I think he was just being a wise guy: last time I ask him a straight fharkin’ question, and that’s flat. He’s also been working for some fantasy/science fiction/horror magazine called Aurealis, managing their submissions like he was some kind of hotshot. I hate that.

            If you should ever bump into the punk, I suggest you quietly yawn and get your snout gone, maybe down to the closest death-wrestling tournament, or nutball match. Unless, of course, you want to talk about ‘Missing, Presumed Undead’, the story about Frank and me, in which case, jaw all you like. And buy the damn book, see? I’m getting’ a healthy slice of the pie, honey, with cream, and as long as I get enough pie and enough cream, I might just cough up a little more for this Davies punk to play with. Frank’s next big deal had to do with this whole Khaos theory milarky that caused a real stir in the City magi-community, back in the day. You see…

            Hang on, that can wait. If you wanna eat the sweet y’gotta assign the swine, as they used to say around my block. Look out for ‘Khaos Theory, or the Fifth Elemental’, which could very well be coming up soon… If you want to know anything else about me, or, if you’re a terminal bore and want to know more about this Davies punk, just write it up and I’ll get back to you when I can. I’m a busy…um…blade.

            And buy the book, or I’ll send Gertie ‘round and she’ll do plenty more than eat your carnations...'

25/12/1899 - 14/1/1957