My dear Smok,
It
has come to my attention most displeasingly that you have announced your
conversion to Semithino’s ways once more. Did you not go through that phase
already? Just before you settled upon the path of Gargazath, you seemed to follow
that way. I thought it displeased you.
I
beg of you, do not follow Semithino into his traps. He has sway over your mind
now. Mind control, I tell you! Mind control! You haven’t been doing enough
math, have you? What’s thirty-seven thousand minus eight hundred ninety-six?
It’s obvious! Thirty-eight million, nine hundred sixty-eight thousand, four
hundred fifty-three and two hundred eighty-nine tenths!
I
hear Gargazath has contracted Terminal something or other, and I am very
pleased and not surprised in the slightest. What I am surprised at is how he
survived so long without contracting the disease sooner.
Now,
I’ve noticed that your cave décor has fallen behind style. Have you killed any
knights recently? If so, hang their heads in your false entrance (I trust you have a false entrance; I would be very
disappointed if you didn’t) to create that wonderful smell of rotting flesh and
rusting armor that everyone loves, especially invading knights and damsels in
distress.
Now,
further into your false entrance. You should construct some image of yourself
which stabs fear into the heart of the very bravest human, preferably mounted
on some sort of fake hoard, like mine!
In
your real entrance you should have a few femurs scattered willy-nilly to create
an impression of fashionable barbarity. A pool of shimmering water would be
nice, but mix in a few drops of goats’ blood to give it a nice bloodstained
effect. Your bed should be comprised of the softest materials available, such
as sheeps’ wool, seaweed, or leaves.
I
sincerely hope you change your mind, Smok.
-Your
serpentine uncle,
Scaligar
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