Hello again, friends, readers, and future victims. It has been seven years since my previous autobiography was scratched into a wooden park bench, which I’ll assume you have not read.
Nevertheless, you may have heard rumors of the events surrounding the socks that were once fused to my feet by means I understand less than you probably do (assuming you don’t understand it at all). They drove me to do murderous, murdery, and murderiffic things that I am not proud of. Of course, those rumors did not include the truth of what happened when the murders occurred. They would leave you with the impression that it was I, Jephrold Gratchfield McNerrister diFlansworth-Smythe that killed all those nice people, puppies, bakery customers, and mountainy men. In fact, it was a group of crows (aka a murder) that swooped in and did all of the actual murdering after the murdersocks had stopped time. Seriously, you must believe that I am innocent.
I was simply a Baker and I made simple pies, one of which contained the murderous murder of crows and ended their murderous string of murderosity. Granted, the pie turned into a new pair of murdersocks when it was done baking, but how was I to know that? I thought I was stopping it.
With its favorite crows baked and gone, the socks on my feet had nothing to do and lost their murderous power. I could tell because they turned grey and let me take them off. This left me free to return to my former life of baking and bringing joy to hungry people. I had to search for a new town in which set up shop because I had indirectly murdered all potential customers in the places I had already been.
I’ll update you on what I find.