Oh would you look at this. A specimen of my maturer work disfigured by the hallmark of the beast. You ought to be ashamed. You ought to have your throat cut across, your tongue torn out by its roots, and your body buried in the rough sands of the sea at low water mark, where the tide ebbs and flows twice in twenty-four hours. Violator. Have you no pride? I’ll tell my brother on you. Are you drunk or something? Don’t come back to me crying scapegoat, saying you are misunderstood. Just look at the shitbroleeth you’ve made here. You ought to have your left breast torn open, your heart plucked out, and given to the wild beasts of the field and the fowls of the air. Don’t’ tell me I don’t see it and that’s all. You think this is something that is an entirely new departure. That’s a damnable foul lie, plagiarist, masquerading as a litterateur. You ought to have your body cut in two, your bowels removed and burned to ashes which are then to be scattered to the four winds of heaven. It is perfectly obvious that with the most inherant baseness you have cribbed some of my bestselling copy, really gorgeous stuff, a perfect gem, the love passages in which are beneath suspicion. O Lord, my God, is there no help for the Widow’s Son? If your so called literature were printed on paper I wouldn’t wipe my ass with it.