Upon receiving a large box brimming with contributor copies of my latest collection, WIDOW OF THE AMPUTATION & OTHER WEIRD CRIMES, I plopped down on my front lawn, surrounded by all my faithful pink companions. We immediately began rereading "our" book cover-to-cover. I say "our" book because my little friends insist on teasing me. You see, they tell me they're the ones who dictated the book to me late at night while I lay sprawled on the front lawn, half-naked and dreaming. But I refuse to believe them this time. I think they're dissimulating again. The feathery ones are staring at me right now, even as I write this, lying to me with their blank, dead, pinpoint eyes that seem to collapse in upon themselves with every passing second, like roiling black holes at the center of the universe—entrances to other worlds far darker and stranger than our own. If anything happens to me, remember to contact the authorities. Tell them the Feathery Pink Ones are responsible. Contact the leaders of the free world. Alert the Men Who Know Things. For God's sake, keep watching the lawns. They might be coming for you next.
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