have got myself into a right old nasty quandary.
seeI have always wanted to be a writer. Ever since I began
to read and write at age four, it always appealed to me.
a young man, I was always found buried in a book. I devoured several
of them a week, and my desire to write remained.
as I grew older and attended college, that thought never quite left
my mind. I admit I was distracted by all the depraved diversions
that typically do distract a young man, yet deep down that notion
thought deep within my consciousness was like a tiny candle illuminating
a vast mausoleum in the middle a pitch black winter's night. From
a close proximity, you could just discern it flickering
from a distance, no-one knew it was there at all; its light was
simply absorbed by the darkness surrounding itsucking away
at its energy and strength.
miraculously, that flame flourished and began to grow and then finally
it ignited my whole imagination. I become at one with my calling
and the words flooded out of me
wrote poetry, short stories, screenplays and novellas. I quit my
worthless job and immersed myself in my passion completely and utterly
Writing sometimes twenty hours a day.
accumulated a vast body of work, and an equally vast number of rejection
slips from every publisher imaginable. So I compared my words to
those getting published and realized to my consternation that my
efforts were pathetic in comparison. They were not only shallow,
but ill-thought-out and badly phrased, never quite managing to convey
the visions inside my head with the clarity that I desperately desired.
used to admire them once, those proper, skillful and eloquent writers.
The ones who could effortlessly spin a tale about a man going mad
and make it sound wittyeven inspiring. Making all who read
the story feel completely different about its unsavory topic, oh,
what power they yielded.
I began to contemplate what was the source of that astonishing
power? Where did this ability to generate perfect prose come
did not take long for me to realize the answer to my question, as
it surely could be no other placetheir brains.
the more I pondered on the matter, the more convinced and crazed
I became. There was clearly something contained in their heads that
gave them this wondrous ability to express themselves not only clearly,
but majestically. Something that cannot be taught, something special,
something embedded deep within their cerebral cortex.
I wanted it. I wanted it more than I have ever wanted anything beforeand
I was prepared to do whatever it took to acquire it.
I began my little writing group, and joined a few others.
were all writing, laughing and smugly sharing their accolades and
All those people who had that magical elusive ingredient
The one I was convinced was contained somewhere within their gooey
suppose some people find it a tad vulgar what I did subsequentlybut
I cannot dwell on that notion. For me, the rewards far outweighed
the ethical consideration.
quickly decided that if I was to absorb the magical power from the
writer's brain that I needed to consume it. There is much
precedent for this in many ancient cultures; several believed that
eating their dead allowed the deceased's memory and soul to live
on... Furthermore, my warped mind decided the brain should be alive
to harness maximum effect.
am not particularly handy with tools, I will be the first to admit
Yet I was pleasantly surprised with what I managed to
sacrificed my old heavy kitchen table to the cause of developing
my art. First I cut an oblique circle directly in the middle
I did it slightly larger than my headas from experience, writers
of skill have larger than average heads.
next dilemma was how to secure the tops of the heads firmly in place.
Surely they were going to wiggle and scream, and not freely permit
me to eat their brains. Rather selfish of them, I thought
Not wanting to share what nature randomly gave them with people
with the passion, but no skill, to write.
found the answer in the local hardware store: a large vice. I simply
bolted it to my table, beneath the hole I had cut. I also realized
that their screaming was going to be an issuemy neighbors
over the years have proven that they are very inquisitive sorts.
I would hate to have them poking their pointed noses into my business.
remedied this by attaching a tennis ball, via two slits made in
the ball, to an old leather belt of mine. Problem solved.
I needed to bolt the table to my kitchen floor, after I discovered
that it was somewhat unstable despite its weight and that any writer
with reasonable physical strength could easy topple the apparatus.
basic set up was complete, and I don't mind telling you I was very
proud of it!
then occurred to me that I was going to need special tools to actually
get to the brain. I know for a fact that skulls are particularly
required another trip to the hardware store.
I was there, I must have had a bewildered look on my face. As I
examined the various electric cutting devices, a chap wearing denim
striped overalls with "My name is Bob, how can I help you?"
written on the front walked up to me.
smiled and asked me what project I was planning to do, and if he
could offer any expert advice.
simply smiled back and politely informed him that I needed to work
this one out by myself.
ended up purchasing a small circular saw; quite a handy little gadget,
let me tell you, and a roll of industrial strength duct tape. On
the way home I also procured a boning knife, a paring knife, and
a grapefruit spoon (a spoon with a serrated edge). I also got myself
an apron with the words "Kiss the chef" decorating the
front. And people tell me that I do not have a sense of humor!
shall never forget my first time trying it out. What a laugh! I
had encountered this old chap, a certain Julian Bramble; perhaps
you are familiar with his work? He has published quite a lot of
books in his timeeven won some of those fancy awards and everything.
lured him to my house quite easily. I just told him I wanted to
interview him and that I worked for one of those big national glossy
magazines. He fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Writers always
like to sprout on about themselves, don't they?
a couple of drinks I simply bopped him over the head with an old
cricket bat. I needed to be careful
I did not want to kill
him ormore importantly at this stagedamage his wonderful
brain. It must have been beginner's luck as after one clunk on his
noggin he keeled over.
was a bit bothersome maneuvering him into place under the table.
But eventually after a little huffing and puffing I got his head
secured his arms and legs with duct tape, and after a bit of effort
secured the tennis ball in place.
have to admit I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, sitting there
waiting for him to wake up again. I even worried if I might have
hit him too hard after all and he was in some sort of a coma.
wanted him to be awake when I began to eat. I felt that his fear
was going to add positively to the experience.
I heard him squirming under the table, and peered down at him. I
could tell by his eyes that he was absolutely terrified. He tried
to scream, but the tennis ball worked admirablyeach time he
opened his mouth a little wider, it wedged itself farther inside.
had set the table with my finest lines, with a hole cut in the middle
of the tablecloth, just where the top of his head was sticking out.
I had matching napkins, my goblet full of grape juice (I never touch
alcoholI find it repulsive.), my finest silverware, the grapefruit
spoon, and my circular saw. I was ready!
I started the saw, the sound must have been disturbing to my dinner
guest, as he began to squirm even more frantically. What a sight!
I had to stop myself from laughing.
soon discovered my big mistake, thoughI had used my best linen
tablecloth, and it was quickly stained with the squirting blood.
whistled gaily some favorite show tune as I sawed through his cranium
and to the meaty part, and proceeded around the base of his
skull. Then it was a relatively easy process to simply flip it up.
It reminded me of opening a can of ham.
noticed that he was still squirming. I picked up the grapefruit
spoon and enthusiastically dug indeep.
have to admit, it was a rather unusual taste, and warmer than I
my fifth or perhaps sixth mouthful, the squirming finally stopped.
I paid no heed and simply kept on eating as fast as I could. If
there were a Guinness book of records time for eating brains
I would have surely have beaten it.
the last few years, I have consumed seven more writers' brains
Three horror authors, one science fiction, two romance writers,
and one political analyst. (The last one was a little too dry for
writing career took off! Just as I had suspected it would
I have written three bestsellers, and even have been featured on
that famous daytime chat show.
I must quickly bring you up to date
and to why I am in such
a horrible plight.
appears that my secret to my success at writing has gotten out
I am being bound and held underneath someone else's table. And some
idiot no-name writer, who claimed he was going to interview me,
is about to start his own circular saw
And become famous.