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,