Tarrow

Victor Salve had always had a slight leaning towards the twisted, darker side of life.  He understood that chaos and destruction were the true essence of life, and embraced this. For this, and a multitude of other reasons, he was shunned by the global community at large. People, upon meeting him, would almost instinctively dislike him. It would be a typical case of an average person detesting a genius. People simply couldn’t bear to see someone better than them.

His whole life was now wrapped around one idea: To make contact with Tarrow. Not that he would ever tell anybody. They would accuse him of being a fool, a madman. Why would anyone ever choose to believe that Tarrow was real? They would tell him to stop reading his dark, depressing books, and move on to become more involved in the positive side of life.

But Victor knew. She was real. She was a demon. And She had been watching him. From a very young age, little Victor had a nagging feeling, a constant suspicion, that he was being watched. He had initially ignored it, but as time passed, it grew. It had put a constant darkness on him, and had isolated him from his fellow beings. What was it? That question had bothered him for what had seemed like eternity, when, one day, the answer came.

Victor had given in. Life was nothing more than hell on earth. What was it that the priests were always preaching about? A place called Heaven? He laughed to himself at the absurdity of the thought of a monster like him ever being permitted entry.

He reached a trembling hand out towards his purchase. Opium. Victor was ready to throw away any hope he had of living a better life for a few moments of happiness with some magic powder. Even he could see it. But he could not stop it. Nobody could, now. He clasped the packet forcefully, and brought it to his face. But then he became aware. It was there. It was watching him. Except it was closer than it had ever been to him, now.  He could sense, somehow, that the presence was female. He couldn’t see it, or smell it, or hear it, only feel it. And it was rejoicing. Rejoicing with a vitality that struck icy daggers into Victor’s heart.  And suddenly, he knew what She was called. Her name was Tarrow, of this he was certain. As to what she was? Victor was no clearer. But he knew now that under no circumstances would he do what She wanted him to. And in the cusps of determination, he threw away the opium, letting the little packet roll down the alley. Almost at once, an aura of rage emanated from Her. She had been so close!

The experience had haunted Victor for ages, up to the point where he had now finally made it possible to make contact with Her again. He had practiced the art of lucid dreaming for ages, and was ready to enter his own mind to see what entity had been stalking his life for so long.

It was late night when Victor walked into the room he had had prepared. It was completely blank, with white walls, a white floor, a white ceiling, and even white door. Inside it, one couldn’t even be sure that they were still in a house. The room was singularly designed to give the impression of a lack of reality.

Victor went to the centre of the room, and sat down in a cross legged pose. It was time to begin. He had brought a candlestand with him, and set it up in front of him. He lit the candles, and the sweet smell of incense wafted through the room. Victor looked around the room once, then shut his eyes, and presently began to take deep breaths. He was meditating, allowing his mind to relax and wander, to find what it was that had plagued him.

He became aware of a disconcerting feeling, as though somebody else was in the room with him. He had had the impression of being watched before, but this was on a new scale altogether. He opened his eyes with all the force he could muster, and at the moment of impact he looked straight ahead.

He could see an old fireplace, and next to it an old wooden rocking chair. As his eyes travelled up the base of the chair he saw-

White. All white. He had glimpsed something else, but it was back to what it had been. There was something different though. A barrier had been crossed. He was aware now that it could happen agai-


-he saw an ancient being, a woman, rotting and sagging on the chair. She leered at him through sunken eyes, and he was aware of Her power, Her potential-

-it was vivid, inexplicable. The flashes kept coming and breaking off as Victor tried to decipher them. He realized, with a growing horror, that he had just seen the face of Tarro-

-Her immense will to destroy all. And she could. The power She wielded was unimaginable. And the frail body masked the burning desire to destroy the worl-

He had glimpsed Her power. She wanted to destroy everything. But why hadn’t She? If the immense power She held was any indicator the world should have been finished a long while ago. What was it that kept her from completing her objective?

Victor began to see flashes upon flashes. A reel seemed to be running in front of him, with millions and millions of incomprehensibly small windows. And in each window, he realized, was a picture! A picture from his life, a memory!

His fourteenth birthday                                                                The day his uncle had passed away

                               The day he had first gone to school

The day his mother had died                                                The day he had graduated

In each picture, he noted, there was something similar, besides him. Some-

Victor began to feel a pain in his head, and stood up, clasping it in his hands and ducking down-

-something familiar. And then, with shock, he realized what it was. She had been watching him. She had been following him in this realm of hers. In Her own room. For all his long, pitiful, life. But why?

The pain shrieked in his head as it escalated. It felt as though an angry madman was stabbing him, again, and again, and again. He wanted nothing more than for it to stop, for sweet release from the agony. He ran to the wall and bashed his head against it constantly, trying to soothe the burning agony.

The reel disappeared, and he looked directly into Her eyes. She gave him a sunken grin, then, in front of his very eyes, changed. She was all at once blessed with the graceful beauty of youth, and Her appearance changed to see fit. She ecstatically threw Her pale hands to the sky in joy, and then She moved.

She leapt from her chair into the air, and pounced at Victor, trying to hurt him, to kill him-

He was doing his best, but She was winning. The pain in his head grew and grew until it felt as though the whole world was burning in it.

He flailed wildly and in vain tried to ward Her off. She was gouging thousands of cuts in him with Her swaying hands, tearing him to shreds before his very eyes.

HE UNDERSTOOD! If he died now, then Tarrow would be free. She would be released from this dimension, this alternate room in which She was bound, and would be free to wreak Her havoc. With this in mind, Victor turned around, and ran to the opposite wall. He flailed around in vain for the door, trying to seek escape from what had once been his haven.

She bit him, slashed him, hurt him-

WHERE WAS IT!? His hands fumbled over something, could it be the knob?-

She gouged out his eyes, and his vision was lost to him, and he only heard. And what he heard terrified him.

The pain reached heights he had not thought possible, and he was momentarily incapacitated. But he struggled onwards, and wrenched open the door.

“NO!”, She screamed. He had the impression of her looking at him with hatred, and felt the hands she slashed him with turn into masses of wrinkles. He heard her flee and return to where she had once been.

As Victor shut the door, he could swear that he heard the sound of a rocking chair.

Suicide Forest

June 6, 2006, Aokigahara Forest, Japan

A tall man walked among the emerald-green leaves of Aokigahara Forest. He had long since strayed off the path intended for tourists.  Not that the path reached so deep into the heart of the forest anyway.  The man was now so deep that the horizon was dominated by the massive peak of the great Mount Fuji, which Aokigahara was at the base of. He walked as though he were troubled, uneasily moving deeper into the forest. He seemed to be trying to struggle with his own demons. Of course, if the legends were to be believed, there was no shortage of demons in Aokigahara.

His name was Vladimir, and he was a tall Russian man, of around 30 years of age. His normally handsome face was ravaged by the presence of the despondent, powerful shadow within him, which he had unwittingly nurtured ever since his last visit to the forest. When had it been, anyways? For Vladimir, all time had stopped then.

He had to go deeper.

He wasn’t anywhere near close enough. Andrei was deeper in. Andrei was waiting for him.

Vladimir stared ahead intently as he marched, his eyes burning holes through the leafy green of the forest. He was so focused on what was ahead of him that he neglected to pay attention to anything else, and as a result of that, he tripped on a branch, and fell to the ground. Almost immediately he tried to lift himself up, but was unable to. He cursed furiously at the branch. He knew what the problem was, but refused to admit it to himself. He had been walking desperately for three days, and was tired enough to drop dead.

Fuming to himself, Vlad pulled himself on to his back and lay down. He was disturbed by this delay he was making to rest. He had to see Andrei. As he lay there, his mind wandered off into the oblivion of dreams, and he saw again the chain of events which had led him here.

June 4, 2003, Outskirts of Aokigahara Forest

Vladimir looked at his twin brother Andrei with concern. He still could not quite understand why Andrei had wanted to come here. Truth be told, however, none of Andrei’s actions in the past year had been much the same as they had used to be. Ever since their mother’s murder, Andrei had changed. For the whole year, Vlad had not been able to shake off the feeling that Andrei was only an empty husk, a shell, with his real brother gone, departed, far away with his mother.

Andrei had had a hard year. First his mother, whom he had been extremely close to, had been killed by a psychotic maniac. Then, the financial troubles had begun. Vlad and Andrei simply were not able to raise enough money to care for themselves and their aged father. Andrei had seemed to take this as some sort of personal failure, and had blamed himself greatly for it, despite all the times Vlad tried to convince him otherwise.

But suddenly, about a month ago, Andrei had changed. He had seemed to become the man he used to be once more. Or at the very least, he was similar to what he used to be. He had the vitality of life in him once again. And then he had invited Vladimir to come on a camping trip with him. Vlad had gladly accepted, happy that his brother was taking an interest in life again.

And here they were now, just inside Aokigahara forest. Why here, of all places? It was not a very friendly forest. The locals claimed that it was haunted by demons which preyed on one’s mind and led them to suicide. Of course, this wasn’t true. This was just a place where many people felt it fit to end their miserable existences. Vlad couldn’t quite see why. After all, it was just a forest, albeit a very calm and pristine one. Why would someone want to be picky about where they killed themselves? It was a concept Vladimir simply couldn’t wrap his mind around.

Over the next two days, Vladimir and Andrei trekked deeper and deeper, until they reached a clearing in the heart of the forest. Vlad was about to begin setting up camp, when his brother stopped him.

Andrei spoke, “Wait, Vladimir.”

Vlad turned around, and asked, “What?”

“I don’t suppose you know where we are, nor why we’re here, do you?”

Vlad looked curiously at his brother, and spoke, “We’re in the Aokigahara Forest on a camping trip, aren’t we?”

Andrei looked coolly at Vlad, “You know very well that’s not why we’re here. You’ve been casting aside glances at me throughout this expedition, wondering what I’m up to. Well, I’ll tell you.” He paced in the clearing for a moment, before looking up and clearing his throat. “Vladimir, we’re in a very special place right now. This- this clearing we’re in. Over four hundred people have taken their lives on this spot.”

“Andrei…no. Please don’t tell me that-“

“-Sorry, Vlad. But I’ve had enough. I hope you won’t think badly of me. Maybe, one day, you’ll understand. But I hope to God that day never comes.” Andrei looked at his brother one last time, and then pulled out the hunting knife from his pack. Vlad just stood there, watching, horrified, and frozen to the spot.

Andrei put the knife to his own throat, and with a slightly tremulous voice, he spoke his last “Don’t try to understand.”

The Present, June 6, 2006, Aokigahara Forest, Japan

Vlad ran furiously forward. He was almost there. He could see him, see him! beckoning to him. His brother was waiting, just beyond the veil. The thin veil of life. Vlad burst through a bush and emerged into the clearing which he had not set foot in for three years.

I’m here, Andrei! Just wait for me!

Vladimir understood now. He could feel; empathize, with the people who chose to end their lives here. Who wouldn’t want to? To die surrounded by the most pristine surroundings on earth, knowing that you would pass away in the midst of silent life. It was the greatest death imaginable, wasn’t it? And Vladimir was ready. He finally knew why his brother had chosen to do what he had done.

We’re closer than we’ve ever been before, aren’t we?

Vlad moved forward, to the centre of the clearing. His foot scraped on something, a piece of bone sticking out from under the ground. He got to his knees, and furiously began to dig with his hands, until gradually; he unearthed the remains of his brother.

Not much longer now!

Vladimir reached forward, and took the knife from the skeleton’s hands. He stood up, and cast one last look around him. A panoramic scene of trees and bushes surrounded him, and he felt at peace.

He put the knife to his throat, and shut his eyes. It was time. Deftly, he drew it across his bulging vein, eager to be free of his physical bonds, eager to be with his brother once more.

I’m coming!

As the red nectar seeped out of his neck, he could almost see his brother in his mind’s eye. He spoke to him.

Andrei, I’m here!

Andrei looked at him, and screamed;

NO! VLADIMIR, DON’T! GO BACK!

Vlad’s eyes began to lose focus, and he began to fall, his last thoughts being those of confusion and sorrow. Perhaps it was never meant to be. As he fell, he was suddenly aware.  

Omniscient.

He felt all the people who had passed here before him, and he empathized with one and all.

At last, Vlad landed, right into the arms of his waiting brother.

Aokigahara was far from sated though, and like a hungry god demanding sacrifice, it lay in wait for its next meal.

Depression

Depression craves further depression.
Satisfaction would be its end,
It brings about only constant recession,
'Till one goes over the bend

A beast of sorts which cannot be tamed,
It strolls through the paths,
Until at last, we will be maimed
And left shall be naught but ghasts

Thoughts without colour mark its path,
Each an unhappy ending on its own,
Never shall we truly escape their wrath,
Lest we venture outside remedies known,

Again and again, the idea manifests
Itself in possibilities uncountable,
And finally, it begins to rest
Becoming infinite, insurmountable

The last step to take seems plain,
‘Tis only a thread of life away,
We will become our own bane,
To finally escape the endless grey

Someone Else's Fault

Luther followed his guide, Mitei, down through the lush, green, gardens of Hiroshima, eager to reach the Dome.

‘We almost there yet?’

‘Almost, Sir.’

Luther scrutinized his rather short guard.  His face had a peculiar expression on it, but that was natural, after all, considering where they were going. Each and every Japanese person who had been there had instantly felt the gravity of the sight. If they did not feel it, then they could not possibly be normal.  Luther was inclined to sympathize with these people. They hadn’t deserved it.

Mitei stopped, and with a curious tremour in his voice, he spoke.

‘…We’re here, Sir. ..I hope you enjoy your visit…to the Hiroshima Atomic Bomb Dome’

Luther nodded at Mitei, and then surveyed the majesty of the situation. What he saw seemed to be so little. An old, partially destroyed house, with a large dome on its mostly annihilated upper floor. It really wasn’t anything special. But then, all of a sudden, the history of the area seemed to overwhelm him.

This is where it happened!...

It entranced and terrified him simultaneously. After all, he had something to be proud of. It had been HIS country which had had the power to do this. But then, his conscience seemed to whisper to him, had it really been necessary?

As Luther stared at the large, mournful looking white dome which jutted out unceremoniously from among the rubble of the house, he was himself unaware that he was being watched. His sheer American-ness was extremely noticeable. That arrogant stride, the jaws working on chewing some gum, the horn-rimmed spectacles, the nasal voice with which he spoke to his guide.

Mitei saw it though. It had been wrong of Luther to come. He didn't fit in here; he was an outsider, and an American to boot. To top it all off, it was that day of the year again. The day when thousands of Japanese people would congregate to the Dome to see, once again, the site where their families had been ripped apart.  It was the anniversary. The Japanese people’s emotions were running high. Logic would not be guiding them right now.

Only the raging torrent of dark flame under their flesh.

Mitei saw it all. He saw the first rock fly at Luther and leave a gash on his forehead. He saw the crowd surge together as if in a wave, towards the hated American. He saw the weaker people being trampled in the desire to hurt the Enemy. He saw a child’s hand stick out of the crowd as his mother was swept away from him.

Mitei saw all this, but did nothing. He stood and observed, the silent watcher in the day, unable to bring himself to join the carnage, but at the same time unable to find any desire to help, to forgive.

At last, he turned, and walked away.

Them

She sat down at the piano, staring at it, wondering if she dared to attempt to play it again. The last time had been so long ago…

She decided that perhaps, it was time to overcome her fears, and hesitantly placed her fingers on the time-worn keys. She played a note, and then another and the music was heaven to her ears.  It had been too long since she had done this…

She then picked up her speed, and began playing the piano as she had played it long ago, in her childhood, familiar and comforting memories rising to her mind as she did.

They had all loved her playing. They would always sit down and watch her fingers dance over the aged keys. For nearly six years they had been content to let her play on her own.  But then…

Something had gone wrong, before, she remembered. And suddenly the memories weren’t warm anymore.

They were not satisfied by her playing any longer. It irked them. The tunes she played simply did not content them. From behind the dark veil, they would watch her and shake their head in disappointment. And then, they had taken matters into their own hands. They had swooped on her as she played for her sick brother, confined to his bed. They had changed her comforting lullabies, turning them into an infernal wail of the condemned. They had consumed her, as they had consumed her grandmother before her, and she had done wrong.

She missed her brother…

‘Murderer’, they had called her.

But, it seemed as though she was all right now. Nothing was happening as she played. The tune of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons flooded the dark attic room, and she was at peace. But then she saw them. They were still there.

 Watching her.  Vibes of resentment darkening their demeanour every moment.

And then-

A pure sound-

But then a pause-

And the resumption of music-

But not good -

Infernal tunes raged through the room, and her fingers moved without her consent.

She saw, through the window, the shade of her brother. Was he smiling? She couldn’t quite tell.

A little closer…

She went to the window and opened it, but she still wasn’t close enough. She leaned forward, and the music in her head became an overwhelming crescendo of despair.

Falling…lights everywhere…They were watching…

And then-

Darkness.

The Life and Death of Polly the Cow.

Oh dear Lord!...

To Alexander, Earl of Durnenshire, it seemed as though his day could not possible get any worse. As he sat there the great hall of Durnen Castle, watching the sweepers deal with the disturbing dead cow on the floor, he glumly noticed that everything had gone wrong for him that day. And in the most dramatic manner possible, too.

Why did it HAVE to be today?  It really had been due to the extreme convergence of probability that this day had gone like this. He once again began to reminisce.

The day had started very well. Alexander and his loyal butler Tibbles had been preparing Durnen Castle for the King’s welcoming party. They had put painstaking work into making sure that every detail was perfect. Massive purple curtains hung from the massive curved windows. Large, opulent red carpets were laid out in all the corridors and halls, adding a rather splendid effect to the whole thing. But Alexander and Tibbles wanted perfection! No floor could be shiny enough, no rug straight enough! But eventually, even Alexander was satisfied with the majority of the preparations, and decided to go the kitchens to check on the progress of the roast beef.

In retrospect, this was where it had started to go wrong. In that dramatic way which was mentioned earlier.

Alexander, First of the King’s Men, Earl of Durnenshire, Self-Appointed Vizier of Justice, Knight of Truth, entered the kitchens to see what could be described as no less than a battle. The scene was a strange one. Ten or more cooks well armed with cleavers and rolling pins were advancing on a vaguely familiar cow. Alexander seemed to remember purchasing it for the dinner. It seemed that the cow was a princess, however, because one lone ebony skinned chef was championing for her. And if Alexander had thought that the previous cooks were well armed, it was nothing compared to this dark skinned hero, with his two massive butchering knives.

Upon seeing their Earl enter the room, the chefs suddenly veered away from what had promised to be an exciting, if rather dangerous performance, and decided to do what employees did best. Complain.

‘M’lord, this fool won’t let go of that dratted cow. Says meat is murder or summing of the sort.’

‘Earl, this man is insane! We were just going to butcher old Polly when ‘e jumps in front of ‘er and starts ‘ollering about animal’s rights. Mad, isn’t it?’

‘Sir, when I signed up to be a chef, I was fairly sure that my ethics would be accounted for, and you can understand that me, with my religion being what it is, wouldn’t want to see murder take place in front of my eyes, can’t you?’

Noise, noise, noise!

Alexander wanted to scream at them all, but he knew that the hardest ego to mend was a chef’s, and considering that there were seven French chefs here, he decided that it would be better for the sake of the roast beef if he simply kept quiet.

He did, however, promptly dismiss his errant servant, who spluttered indignantly, but finally acquiesced to leave, with the fair maiden Polly making distressed noises as her last lifeline left.

Alexander then told the chefs to get on with it, and decided to go to re-check the status of the dining hall. As he walking in through the large domed archway, he noted happily that nothing in particular seemed to be awry there. Carpets on the floor, curtains in front of the windows, orchestra in its proper place- Wait, was someone talking to the orchestra?

Alexander frowned and went up to the orchestra to be greeted by a grim sight. The pious chef had just been talking to them, and on seeing Alexander, had run away. And if the grim faces of the band were anything to judge by, he hadn't been saying anything positive.

All of the orchestra started speaking to Alexander at once, and through the rather profane jumble of words, he managed to glean some information. The orchestra, consisting mainly of those revolutionary youths who were fashionable with the younger generation, thought of Alexander’s dismissal of the errant chef as a racial prejudice, and said right there and then that they did not intend to play for elitist snobs.

Alexander watched in despair as the orchestra packed up and left, and would probably have thrown a tantrum had the royal fanfare not just sounded. The King had arrived.

After exchanging some pleasantries, the King entered the hall and made small talk with Alexander. He had noticed, he said, that there was no musical performance, such as was custom to play at these events? Not that he minded, of course, Oh No, he was just curious. Alexander meekly replied that it was simply so hard to hire good orchestras in this day and age, and he had decided that no orchestra was better than a bad orchestra.

At that moment, there was suddenly a loud *CRASH* followed by an equally loud *SNAP* as the door to the kitchen broke, and Polly the cow, taking ‘charge’ of her own life, ran out into the hall, and roared. Alexander simply stood there, looking helpless, and then turned to the wake of the cow’s destruction. Behind the rubble of the broken door he could see a grinning dark face. It seemed that he had been wrong to make an enemy of this person, but it was too late to take it back now.

There was complete pandemonium in the hall. The appearance of this cow had scared everyone out of their minds, and they were at their wit’s ends.

The previously mentioned well armed culinary experts now also dashed into the hall, and one bright little man decided that it would be a good idea to take the initiative, and he brought his cleaver down on Polly then and there. Polly let out a loud cry of distress, and then fell down dead on the floor. A sudden hush fell on everyone in the hall. The chefs were silent, the King was silent, the orchestra (who had been masquerading as potted plants) were quiet, and even Tibbles was quiet.

Then they all heard a sound. A cow-like sound. Not the pleasant moo which people read about, but more like the actual MYEAAARGGHHHHH that cows are prone to make. There was a massive shattering noise and one of the curtains ripped as a massive bull charged into the hall, and MYEARGH’d once more. It looked like they were in trouble. It seemed that one of Polly’s sweethearts had heard her call of distress and had come to the aid of their (now fallen) princess.

The bull (let’s call him Bob), saw the carcass that had once been the slender, brown-and-white beauty that was Polly, and roared in anguish. Then it slowly turned around and observed the whole room. It seemed to notice the King in particular.

The King and the Bull looked at each other, observing, gauging their enemy’s strength. A certain apprehension entered both combatants’ eyes. But then Bob decided to charge, and gored the King’s arm.

Everybody instantly rushed to the aid of their fallen ruler, and the well trained SWAT ( Still Wondering About Tea) team of chefs leapt into combat with the bull. A great battle took place, but in the end Bob was subdued, despite his valiant attempts to live on. The chefs stepped back, surveying a job well done, and expectantly looked at Alexander.

Alexander now finished his reminiscing to see that their eyes were still on him, and they looked hopeful. Oh dear, he thought. Surely, surely they weren’t expecting a raise?

Ducks

This, my friends, is an essay about ducks. Yes, those yellow, quacking, feathered menaces of the ponds. I’m sure we all know what I’m referring to. Everybody has seen them. And those that haven’t have seen their menacing antics on hit propaganda show, Tom and Jerry.

People nowadays are surprisingly misguided. They show unnatural fears of completely nice creatures, such as crocodiles, or lions.  These animals have completely respectable kill statistics, of generally 5-20 a year in the civilized areas of the world.

What, then, you might rightly as, are the statistics of DEATH-BY-DUCK?(Henceforth referred to in this document as DBD.) The answer is that there are none. You might now outrageously try to defend the aforementioned yellow furies for lack of evidence against them. BUT DON’T YOU SEE!? This very lack of evidence is what tells against them! THEY ARE TAKING OVER THE INTERNET AND HAVE REMOVED ALL DBD STATISTICS!

Sorry for my outburst there, I sometimes lose my cool when discussing these predators. D’you know, there are people on this earth who are intelligent enough to understand that these ducks are actually yellow-coated raptors? Yes, yes there are. And the rest of the world stomps on them. They tell them that they’re crazy, that they’re seeing ducks everywhere. Anatidaephobes, they call us. It is the universal acknowledgement that the ducks are winning. If the human race does not understand that their very existence is threatened, then how will they go to war?

Still, our current position in the war isn’t as bad as it was circa 3000 years ago. Back then, the ducks had an even greater master of propaganda. He went by the name ‘Zeus’. He passed himself off as an extremely gifted human, albeit one with excessive growth of facial hair. He realized that the humans had begun to revere him, and thus began one of the most deluded periods in human history.

They were known as THE DUCK (There is a common misconception that this is meant to be pronounced as ‘Dark’, but it is untrue) AGES. This is a time during which Duck Sculpture first began. Statuettes of ducks dated over 2000 years old have been recovered. The intellectuals of this earth believe that this is when the ducks first began to assault the aforementioned DBD records, and so took their first step towards establishing rule on earth.

I must leave you all now, for I fear that they are near. I shall end with the usual Anti-Duck poem, but I would also like to remind humankind of their duty to their race. Please, friends, if you hear the dreaded ‘QUACK’ once more, barricade yourself in your house, and don’t come out, lest you add to the secret DBD records.

Signing off,

T

‘Dear friend, if you do hear a quack,

Run, go hide in a shack,

For truly, of gifted humans, we have a lack,

And don’t want another body-sack

Dear friend, when you see flashes of yellow

Waving as though they were Jell-O

Be prepared for the war-like bellow

Show thyself to be a careful fellow

Dear friend, when into open combat with the winged fury, you come

Do not let your senses grow numb

And as a general rule of thumb,

Please, try not to be dumb.