Last night, at the darkest, most sinister hour of evil, it finally happened.  The bastards broke into my place with crowbars and other odd, inexplicable tools.  Stealthily, they came into my room.  Asleep and dreaming of something quite titillating, I did not know they were there.  I only realized their presence when the drilling began.

 

The bastards cut a hole in my head.  (Secretly, I’ve always been curious about what would happen if I cut a hole into my own skull.  I am similarly curious about what would happen if I dropped a lit match into a barrel full of gunpowder.  I want to know how it would feel to drink a half-pint of mercury.)  It was not a large hole, big enough for only a small mouse to escape.  And yet, so much trash suddenly fell out of my head.

 

I will not recount the entire list of items.  The bastards immediately stole everything of value, pieces of ancient platinum, an autographed copy of the Marilyn Monroe Playboy, Beelzebub’s crystal demon-teeth, and gilded dog droppings.  The only thing they left was an old and dusty typewriter, its innards loaded with cobwebs and a single ribbon of ink.

 

For the first few hours, some odd goo (amniotic fluid?  is my skull pregnant with more?) dripping from my head, I wept.  I clenched my teeth out of hatred for the bastards, anger at their thieving, secret ways.  But then, at a moment of inspiration, I decided I would write the greatest story ever told.  I must have been too zealous when I pressed the first key on the typewriter because my forefinger got stuck between the “T” and the “U” and ended up sprained.  In pain, I realized this was what I had always wanted.  I was perfectly aware, finally, of what would happen when the bastards drilled a hole in my head.