Here is a letter I found in my house

From: Marge
Oct. 28, 2007
Impaler Castle
Romania

To: My Dear Dead Friend Truman
The Spiritual Realm
Non Parallel Time

My Dearest Dead Friend Truman,

It has been too long since we have corresponded and I hope you are well (the fact that you are dead notwithstanding). I had the strangest dream today and I felt compelled to contact you.

I dreamed that I was a little girl studying the martial arts in Japan when I was almost killed by a rockslide (these events so far happen to correspond with reality). Then I dreamed that I had a small brother who was trapped in a cave by aforementioned rockslide (I, however, was an only child).

As I stood outside the walled-in mouth of the cave, a polar bear rug began speaking to me.



(Here is a pencil sketch of said bear. Perhaps you did not know of my artistic talent!)

This must be very amusing to you, as you know of my fondness for polar bear rugs. I have been fascinated with them since I was a child and I simply cannot have enough of them surrounding me.

Anyway, the polar bear rug and I dug through the rocks to save my brother, but, alas, he was not in the cave. The only person there was someone named Karl, who said he was from Arkansas and was fond of fried potatoes. The next thing I knew, I was standing amid the ruins of a destroyed, burning city.

I cannot tell you how much this dream has vexed me, yet I cannot understand its significance. Perhaps I have too much on my mind.

As I'm sure you know the Vatican today beatified some so-called "victims" of the Spanish Civil War. To this day I am quite suspicious of the Spaniards and their forked-tongued king, Juan Carlos, traitor to fascists everywhere.

Also, I apparently have run afoul of the local bureaucracy here in Impalvania. It seems they have found some alleged code violations with the castle. Several inspectors have been "dispatched" to poke and prod at its thousand-year-old foundations and it seems none of them has returned to their retched cubicles. Perhaps they were catapulted over the ramparts or impaled in a forgotten dungeon. Whatever their fate I don't see how it is any of my concern.

At any rate I have been thinking of at least temporarily shifting my base of operations to the city of Allentown in America, where I would like to test my theories on society-building on a living model, so to speak.

I hope to see you when I arrive in America. I have been in contact with an influential blogger in Allentown and I intend to use his headquarters as my Team Marge nerve center. (He is as yet unaware of this plan.)

Adieu, mon ami

Marge

Darkness has descended

Darkness has descended upon Renaissance Square.

First, the Squire ran afoul of the mysterious and evil Marge, who commandeered this very blog as Atown-Liker lay dead in the gutter, a victim of non-alcoholic beer. Then the Squire's loyal ally, the Duchess, was attacked while recovering from cosmetic surgery that went awry and accidentally injected with some sort of performance enhancing amphibian extract by one of Marge's minions. She was last seen in the form of a monster swimming in the Mediterranean Sea in the general direction of Allentown.

Other allies of the Squire, the Green Guy and Miss Emily were hounded into hiding, retreating into the woods where they played tricks on one of Marge's dimwitted henchmen. Even the Squire's cats were turned out of the house and its grounds laced with poison. Later they found refuge in what was once my domain.

A spirit began haunting these halls, the acid tongued yet jovial My Dear Dead Friend Truman.

Then, shockingly, one of Marge's own minions, the rebellious Mr. Player, was struck down in cold blood by Karl, the seemingly mild-mannered gardener of these premises.

Worst of all, Johnny Manana's was put up for sale and an impostor calling itself Cannons opened, with its well-loved painting defaced with inane doodlings by its new management.

It's been a busy month.

Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Maximillian. You may have noticed I am a polar bear cub. But I am much more than that.

My home is in the spirit world. But 140 years ago, when I was a 10-year-old human boy I lived in this very house with my father and sisters.

That was before Marge came into our lives.

Remember this?

If the soldiers ever figure out how to get across that canyon, those hippies will be in so much trouble!