Thirty years, and this is what you write? What the hell is wrong with you David? Elegant moments, graceful pleasantries, wellington boots and mahogany wood. That’s what people read David, not some profane diatribe with mind-bending terror-beams, or tentacled parasites with silly hats. Nobody wants to read that nonsense David, nobody.
Publishing his first book at age seven, David discovered an unrelenting passion for never mentioning it again. He has been asked not to speak about his work at conventions, informal gatherings, and by the Federal Judiciary. David currently lives with seventeen duplicates at a small cloning facility in Western Australia.