My wife is in the shower in our hotel room

My wife is in the shower in our hotel room singing Black Sabbath and my heart is filled with

Iron cast into sorrow. It keeps ripping me apart I am not sure I can take this magic. I might flee into some shadows

overcasting the permafrost during my eternal search for the northwest passage. An icy wind blows as I survey the tomb of Able Seaman John Flannagan. I march off in the direction of

my companion, Tom Flannagan, John Flannagan's bastard son. Tom

's mom woos Maeve McDuff, the midwife, but some the say she swapped the Prince's chayld while Flanny was still out a celebratin' Tom shamelessly spreads such rumors puttin' on airs

When he does his podcast. He calls it the "common sense show", but the truth is Tom is just like a bird feeding the eyases. He regurgitates everything. Simple as that. Beware of

Birches that ate the leeches. There is no knowing what that might unleash. I flew immediately to Snoqualmie Springs to do begin the rituals with my dying by water.

I lay in the Snoqualmie Springs, calling out to the great tree society The Sons Of Beeches to finish me off. They argued with me for three days and nights before they agreed to

one of them falling down and crushing me to death. But which tree would do that? It was suicide for a tree to uproot itself and fall; not one volunteered. They thought some more,

the tree must have been a treant, but no forest speaking, branched banked with bird chirping treant. It was the most cursed one, that grew from the seedling of a dragons scale.