It was time to write. The clouds had lifted

It was time to write. The clouds had lifted to reveal a particularly beautiful sunset. L'mar felt that the clouds had also lifted from the crippling writer's block that had

shrouded the talent he had once so cavalierly flourished; but here, as the light of the setting sun played across his emerald scales, he dipped his K'rax quill into the inkpot, and

passed out when he inhaled the fumes from the inkpot. John Hancock's quill fell out of his hand. In the shadows sat the gleaming Benjamin Franklin, it was

the iridescent gleam of a man who'd experienced one lightning strike too many. Washington started confessing about the Cherry tree & Jefferson admitted to a liason with a slave

vampire presidents were another kettle of fish. It was hard to explain how JFK survived the assassination attempt only to spontaneously combust in the Dallas sun. The voters are

confused, and confusion makes them angry, and anger sells pitchforks and torches. The vampires need a plan, fast. Only the Twinkle-Stars in the Trunk of Speculations could

dare to invoke The Economy in the face of primal needs and fears. The vampires despised them for their weak minds and bitter blood. But the villagers lacked insurance plans, But

-terfly Bob pointed out. The villagers needed to work up a mental sweat to maintain symmetry with their bodies. "It's called Sudoku," Bob said. "Just fill in... Hey! Don't eat it!"

Bob threw up his arms in futility. The villagers didn't like religion, didn't like bridges, didn't like rubber trees, and didn't like Sudoku. So he left them to their squalor.