“...pornographic...” they called it. “... a travesty...” They said it would spoil children; rot their brains. I had a hard time explaining that it was neither for children, nor would it rot their brains. My creation was simple, a book that wasn't limited just by the story that it had in it, one in which the reader could observe the true original picture that the writer had imagined through brightly coloured illustration and cinema-style posturing of characters. They told me in all honesty,
“Mr Trebeck, your work (The Dark One) cannot be printed with the facility that even the world's finest publishers possess, as the presses will not allow it, and, truth be told, neither would I.
Good luck in future endeavours, although, don't give up your day job.
Regrettably, John C. Peter”
Well, I'll show them. Ten years work. A decade of my life. My family, gone without me, driven mad by my constant whinings that the work would never be finished, that we would have again to move to somewhere more prosperous where I could try again. Oh no, I am not by any means done. I have, in the midst of all of my writings and my drawings, become somewhat adept with the machinery used to wage war, of which I researched thoroughly whilst in London for the book. I have designed a number of devices intended only to show the publishers that what happens in my book is plausible; even realistic. They would not even take receipt of my full manuscript, nor even briefly scan upon the machinery. So, I put it to them, all those that have refused me, all those that have doubted and have fought against me, that I will have vengeance. I shall bide my time, wait until they are at their weakest, and then when the moment is right, I shall swoop from the shadows.
They have doubted for the last time. Tonight, I become what I have created, and tomorrow morning, I shall wake as “The Dark One”.
Woe be tied to he who stands in my way.