Sometimes things just fall through the cracks.
It's inevitable, I suppose, that in the glamorous world of fetes and soirees that I glide through, wraith-like, a few things should escape my attention. Spectacular, 'victimless' crime is more than a vocation--it takes time and resources, and if you don't believe me, then you try running a ninjitsu pony training camp for flexible and unwed young orphan girls.
So, yes, I dropped the ball on the miscegenation clinic, I botched the design for Falling Falling Water, and the digital banana remains just ink on paper. Fine. Me and my billions are spread thin; I make no apologies. But, sometimes, a project is so dear to me that I must make amends.
Here is one of those projects: my precious contribution to the world of great literature, The Feral Wolf Twins Go To The Country. Understand, of course, that I never actually wrote a single line of prose in my life; but if I've learned one thing, it's that you should never skimp on ghostwriters. I didn't realize how unsatisfactory the original team (Cubans, I think, or possibly dolphins) was until they wrote themselves into a corner by Chapter 8 and spent entire months watching Benji movies and eating fish instead. That resulted in the prior embarrassment that bore my name, and which by now has been incinerated.
So I placed a Craiglist ad for a young scribe to supply a new, improved, and less crappy Feral Wolf Twins Go To The Country. One applicant stood out among all the rest; I'm not sure if it was for his literary skill, or his rather definite opinions, or his coat of fine hair, but he was eager (desperate?) for a job and, frankly, I can imagine no-one else better equipped to write my masterpiece for me under my name. He is now installed in the servants' catacombs of my 13th Century country home, The Grottos, turning out chapters at a furious rate, and I can only hope he finishes my remarkable novel quickly--I'm as eager to find out what happens as I'm sure you are!
Eli "The Opossum" Chartkoff
Somewhere in Eurasia, October 2007
Forward by The Real Author, A Mothman
I am mothman, and I write this history which you read now. It is time for your weak scientists to understand the existence of Mothmen. We exist, and it is clear that I write these words which you read! Victorious! A lot of words, write Mothman!
Now you, stupid person who reads now these words. I have taken this job only because of romantic indiscretion. You see, at my last job I washed the windows with Squeegee. I washed the windows of many attractive widow humans, and several unkempt ones too at that, hectar hectar hectar!
Soon I washed the windows of young attractive widow in a building. It was very high in the clouds, but I am not interested, because with my silky wings I fly from window to window and wash them with my Squeegee. The attractive young widow was prostrate and reclining! I said "she is prostrate and reclining from the love," and I unfurled my internal secrets to her on the other side of the window. You see, secrets are splendourful! Mothman is attractive!
But then I see that she was troubled with the illness, that is the coat of mold of the fine form, and that she was prostrate and reclining from deceased-being, not of the love! Hectar hectar hectar. Thus mothman lost a large quantity of money, because dead widow cannot give money and was dead. Thus I answer Craiglist advertisement this job of writing novel book both exciting and unclean!
I am an experienced author, I wrote many pamphlets leaflets screeds. I wrote Mothman's Guide To Spain and Mothman's Guide To Outer Space and also do not eat not Merman, Mothmen! Also I translate complete prose works of ABBA into silence, which is the language of the Mothman, and this makes sales of many many copies, because ABBA is very popular singing group! Completely successfully, Mothman!
So I will write this book very especially. And then I will leave and woo many more attractive widow humans, and return to sumps to be King of Mothmen! Prepare coffee drinks!