“...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.
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