So I got some mail from a guy claiming to know Revel Grove's executioner well.

He wanted to have a page here as an addictee, and, well, I figured I'd better do whatever he said. Here's the product of Russell's twisted imagination. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did:

How to dress funny and yell down cleavage
by Russell Therrien

My name is Russell. Yes, that's it Russell. Russell Therrien.

And I have Maryland Renaissance Festival Withdrawal [OH GAWD just Say it will You?] Syndrome.

It wasn't a problem at first. I mean, most folks just figure you're eccentric or European or something. But then one day I was visiting the Smithsonian's Natural History museum, and security wouldn'a let me leave. Seems they thought I had offed with some of their treasures. And was armed, they cried. Armed? Really now. A bleeding little sup knife, and a simple dagger carried at my side. Not like I was out with rapier or broadsword.

Anyway, I've gotten over that now. My peers have gotten used to my frequent bare feet in the office. Of course, our government clientele is amused, too. Our director has trouble with her humor glands, I think. Course, her big boss calls me Capt. Shoeless. I always use that to beg her for more than the pittance they grant me now. And no, it hasn't worked yet.

I have so fully accepted my disease that I now actually live in Revel Grove. Well, not now, rather whatever year the King claims it to be in Revel Grove. I mean, he is our liege is he not? Linear chronology is a machination of the living-well challenged, don't you agree?

So look for me in the Pig's Butt or the White Hart with a tankard of God's own swill in my face, and say...

"You bloated little rat-catcher, you been standin' to the pub all the day! Back to work with ya, afore yer master hears 'a this!"