Hello, I'm a loser. Loser. LOSER. I said L-O-S-E-R. I've been a human being for donkey's year. It's high time to become someone else better, or even better, something better. My lost years started very early, since I was a little boy. Do you know that strange tree in the corner of the main street of our neighborhood? That one, in which everybody uses to scratch the bark, without pity, without punishment? That one - look: go straight on until you reach the main street, walk 100 meters and Bob's your uncle - you are there! So, I remember perfectly: once upon a time, when I was a little boy, at the age of 8 or 9 years old (it slipped off my mind), this tree started chewing the cat and, after catching my attention, told me a terrible story about creepy doctors in fatal surgeries. I gave it the cats arse, but it didn't work as I thought: the tree became bigger and bigger and bigger… So I did a runner. However, I noticed that the strange tree was a bit hairy at its heels - considering, of course, that a tree could have heels. It doesn't matter, trust me. I ask for your attention: trust me, I'm not all mouth and no trousers and my speech didn't fall off the back of a lorry. Although, I must admit: at this point, I've got enough alcohol in my blood to cobble dogs with. But let me tell you more about the strange tree. Green, ok. But not so solid as we expect from a tree. This one is more gelatinous, gooey and smelt bad. Imagine a dirty latrine, which has never been cleansed. You can realize what I'm saying. Shit, piss, fuck - pardon my French. When this tree told me the horrible story about those creepy doctors, wow, a cat got my tongue. I have become a voiceless dumb until today. Mute for 40 years! Wordless. Unsounded. Toneless. Speechless. And dumb dumb dumb dumb. Loser. Losing my entire life. During this time, I used to have a one-track mind: kill this strange tree - and, afterwards, find out where the creepy doctors live, if they are still alive, of course.
But yesterday, 40 years from that fateful day, I woke up in the morning - that could be mourning, that would be mourning - and saw a couple of pigs flying. So, as my history has more holes in it than Swiss cheese, I decided to start to talk, again. And saw the strange tree.
When I was about to do that, however, I did a Devon Loch, dying from a heart attack.