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You...you want to know about me?

Well - it's a long story!

I was born a child of inconsiderable years to an ebullient old clergyman and his gud-wyfe, nursed and suckled by a mysterious lady of veiled origin, and baptised during a wyrd and ancient rite in a dark and gloomy church in the old smuggling port of Charleston. Seeing as nothing good could be produced under these circumstances, nobody was in the least bit surprised when early on I eloped with my nursemaid and four clergywomen (blame it on the Anglicans) and set up camp in the undesirable wastes of the far west, where for years I travelled as an itinerate preacher known as "Parson Ezekiel", and my fiery sermons brought many to the truth - though, as it turned out, I was secretly drinking and gambling recklessly on the side, and so my flock angrily sold me to a group of Tunisian silk merchants. I wound up dusting the snooker table for His Eminence the Pasha until I reached the age of maturity, whereupon I became the Lord High Machiavellian Minister to the Shah. Needless to say, he was soon dead - killed in a polishing accident - and so were all of his male heirs. And yet, for reasons I do not entirely fathom, the people weren't pleased with my presence on the Peacock Throne and I was forced to abscond in a steamer trunk with the crown jewels and also the Royal Nubile, along with a large Persian carpet which I later used for the purposes of lining the interior of my drawing room - a difficult and painstaking task. Unfortunately, on the way back home we were ambushed by pirates and I was deprived of many of the important appendages necessary for free movement of the physical frame. In point of fact, I was so whittled down that I found it advisable to have my manservant carry me about whenever I wanted a change of environment. But life in a small cherrywood box I found to be lacking of some of the natural charms one is expected to find in existence, and so I felt mightily depressed (not to say "compressed") for the rest of my days, which were tragically cut short when my compartment was mistaken for the cigar box and tossed out with the rubbish by my butler, who was himself trying to quit the habit.

And now I sit here, a Flaccid Ghost, mulling over the meaning of existence and adding bits to my LJ whenever I'm in the mood.

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