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yore,” and it’s held together by “more than string and skill.”
To counterbalance the ragamuffin look of his clothing, he
perches these tiny octagonal, black-tinted eyeglasses on the
tip of his nose. Taken all together, he looks like something
straight out of a goddamned nightmare, which is likely the
vibe he’s shooting for, I’m sure.
Beyond all the oddities I already mentioned, he claims to
have been called upon to play some sort of game. He generally
refers to it as the Great Bloody Wolf Hunt, a slaughter-sport
that pits serial killers against one another. I must admit, that
is something I’d pay damn good money to watch, which is
precisely where I come in. You see, Mr. Grey—that’s what
he calls himself—can no longer waste his mind and hands
on the “pedestrian, although wonderful, craft of writing,” as
he must dedicate the sum of his dexterity and concentration
to The Great Bloody Wolf Hunt. So, someone’s got to keep
his journals up to date—lucky me.
I won’t bother giving you my name—Mr. Grey wouldn’t
have it, anyway. Besides, I’m not much of anyone really,
which I’m sure is part of the reason Mr. Grey nabbed me.
There’s no wife or kids to worry about me, no close friends
to get concerned and go poking around looking for me. I’m
just a chubby loner who writes books that few people read.
I’m not much of a novelist, but I’ve managed to get a few
published, shitty though they are. Mostly, I write (bad) short
fiction. And I certainly regret writing the short story “Songs
to Scream By.” That’s the one that caught Mr. Grey’s eye.
Shortly after abducting me, he explained I was the only
writer he’d ever read who could “conjure the true failure of
the spirit and its many and inevitable deaths.” I took it as a
compliment. I think.
Anyway, Mr. Grey’s been having me record his thoughts
and exploits in this big beautiful journal of his. Good Christ,
the thing’s even got handmade vellum pages. As a writer,
I’ve got to award him some points for that. Up to the time
he stole me away, he’d been keeping his own notes, and I
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