What you know now about the Murdersocks is what I knew then about the Murdersocks. This is to say, increptibly incomplete and full of unknowledge. You have, as was I, been protected from the full knowledge of their murderously murderous ways and methods. You were fortunate that I was able to suppress that memory for so long as the truth would have murdered the soft and marshlike foundations of your mind. Regrettably, I must now murder your blissful ignorance.
Mine own unknowledge of the full events of the first day was enmurderized by the dream I had a fortnight later in my mountainy tent, just after I noticed that the Socks had been controling me.
The location of that line between pleasant dream and nightmare is a relative and subjective thing. I, for example, wake up in a cold sweat when I dream of anything other than puppies, candy, or some combination of the two, so it could be said that my dividing line is very far to the left. One might think that I would be terrified of sleep for this reason, but the truth is that, puppy flavored candy and candy flavored puppies are what I dream about almost every night.
You may have noticed that I’m stretching these introductory paragraphs beyond what is truly necessary. This is because I am doing that, but for a very good reason. If you think I’m trying to build up your suspense, you must think very badly of me. I am a murderer, granted, but I, Jephrold Gratchfield McNerrister diFlansworth-Smythe, am not a bad person.
Rather, I am padding the introduction to delay having to recall this true nightmare of murderlicious nightmarity. I know it will be knee-swallowingly horrible for you and worse for me, knowing that I have caused such pain.
But such filibustering, knack-knickling, and gerrymandering must end now.
The dream, which I somehow knew even then was an accurate memory, began with my conversation with the thin man with the sad face and cheerful hat. The unpleasant discussion of clowns and his mother was replayed and, as before, led to the request for a loaf of rye.
As I remembered, the Murdersocks flashed their murderous glow, but this time, something else happened. As the murdering light, bloody as the bloodiest indoor sunset, began, time appeared to stop.
Nothing moved as the light that was not light grew slowly brighter. I looked up and saw my recent only acquaintances, the crows. I don’t think I saw them fly in the door, but here they were nonetheless.
It wasn’t until then that I recalled that a group of crows is called a ‘murder’, which I learned from my grandfather, Roderick Lentilstein Smythe, who used to bake them into pies.
Anyway, the crows hovered in a black and murderous cloud about two feet above the head of the thin man with the sad face and cheerful hat (who was frozen along with the rest of the world). They flapped their flappy wings ominously and began to take on the same horrible reddish glow as the Socks. The glow grew blinding as the crows seemed to evaporate and hang in the air as a murder of tiny droplets, which then engulfed the defenseless bread-buyer.