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When Carpet Bombing Culture asked me to write this book, I tried to hide. They found me with a pack of hunting ferrets in a Bedouin village in the heart of the Moroccan mountains, where I was hiding out, making a rough living by entertaining the local men with firelight dances. I was pumped with something, and a few days later I woke up in London.
To write a book about a person whose existence (if he existed at all) absolutely nothing is known, to fill this book with paintings that were written by exactly-unknown-who? Surely a huge budget has been allocated for research? I cried. I was slapped to shut up. "We must act immediately, before the body cools down!" they growled. "We print in three days." The manuscript was written in a basement in Shordych on the backs of fake banknotes. My tears were instead of ink.
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