An open letter to The Baron of the Trees

Dear Baron,

I thank you for your comment. It is nice to know there is at least one maniac who reads my words. You see, in all your omniscient posing, you seem to have missed the blatantly obvious: I live a rather scandalous lifestyle and am unafraid of Death and his shadowy train of followers. Rather, I welcome them. My psychologist/lover tells me this rather fiendish aspect of my character is my dramatic way of laughing at the Dionysian aspect of the World. Sometimes I wish I had let her expand on that thought rather than expanding myself and mounting her on the chaise longue. But I digress...

What I am trying to say--rather sententiously, I confess (forgive me, for I am feeling languid)--is: Bring it on, Baron. Besides your threatening words and your apparent hackery of of the estate's sophisticated wireless Internet connection (By the way, I am close personal friends of both webmasters and centaurs), I see no evidence of your power. Consequently I think of you as some kind of impotent Satan with a course in Computer Science under his gaudy country-and-western belt.

So please, go ahead and attempt murder, because often I dream of death and find it a rather peaceful alternative to the hustle and bustle of the world. Truly if you wanted to shock me, threaten appearing at my door in a black belt and brown shoes while devouring a McDonald's cheesed Hamburg sandwich open-mouthedly and eructating between gluttonous swallows, for that is a more fearful thought to me.

If you are serious about this murder thing, stop by for a spot of tea first and have a go at fixing my printer.

Sincerely,

Nigel Tewksbury

P.S.
I have left you a gift by the fountain. One of Santa's elves told me you wanted a bloody gibbon's head.

A stirring in Gibbon Forest

Dear Reader, how are you? Of course, I do not really care; I ask only because you might ask how I am. I am doing fantastically! For whatever reason, I find myself a tall, slender packet of energy today. I spent the morning drinking tea in Gibbon Forest with a young blonde girl I met in the city. I commented on her exquisite hound's tooth overcoat while in line at the butcher's shop, and she asked me my background. I replied, "omnivore," and she laughed sweetly. Our banter went well so I invited her to the estate and we had a little picnic in the forest. Ah, it has been so long since I have had human company amongst the lesser apes, and I must say it was glorious. It eventually came time to say goodbye. I wanted to kiss her, or at least embrace, but just at that moment of parting, a gibbon swooped down and started picking at the poor lass's curls. I blame her not for fleeing as other gibbons began dropping to the earth like fallen angels. It is a shame it ended thusly. I feel a strong desire to twine my arms around her now, and I feel the gibbons marred an otherwise immaculate date. Damn them. I hope she is capable of forgiving animals--for they do not understand love. (although one particular gibbon will swoop no more).

I shall call her on the telephone when the muses give me the words to speak, for at the moment I find myself speechless. It is difficult to articulate the more tender feelings, and I find it laughable when I see retarded oafs composing love poems and songs to their lovers. I want to shake them by the throat and say, "Foolish rhymester! It is the job of the muse to compose. You are but a vessel." But oh no, they go on and on about love, dove, heart, smart, etc., etc. It makes me want to spew.

I remember my first night with Phoebe. The muse dictated to me the first quatrain of what later became an Elizabethan sonnet. I could never invent such beautiful lines. I am eager for tonight's slumber to see if the muse dictates a new one to me. It's how I will know if my love be true. But already I feel a strange mixture of gibbons, nymphs, and beauty stirring within.

Ah! I am distracted. My calendar is clear. I shall pass the afternoon with the faerie and dreams. I have already had Harold--the gibbon who swooped--beheaded and disposed of. He was often an instigator. So I instigated his end.