"Children scurry down stairs in leaps and bounds, faces filled with hope. To find treasures under a decorated tree, to have their wishes fulfilled and to be merry with their families, disappointment being the only gift to last a whole year... What hope is there to find in a strange bed on a cold morning, my only treasure the golden glow of an empty bottle. I wish you all a time of love, warmth and happiness. Unfortunately, none of my wishes ever come true..."

"The bourgeois adorn their houses with wintergreen and festive lights which they gather in markets and at greeneries. They seem to find joy in their frantic scurrying about these places. Too busy are the salesmen, too loud are the peasants. What wonder to find this lonely tree walking home after Sunday prayers! My halberd, mostly used as infant repellant, quite easily liberated this spruce from its roots. Will this prickly foliage with its stringed lights give me the joy of the season?"

"The new year calls for new beginnings. Perhaps the celebratory explosions have scared the meek and docile people into excercising their bodies. I will join them in their ranks and better myself.
The thick soles of their flexible footwear bend awkwardly as I make my way on a road that travels ever faster in the opposite direction. This Sysiphean task is self-inflicted torture!"

"It looked at me with a longing for companionship. Yearning to be taken from its prison among bicycles. Unlike humanity, it seemed to know I am capable of love. My heart felt fuzzy under my armour as I took the little mutt, its big eyes full of cuddly promises: this could be my friend! An unearthly shriek emanated from a woman obviously as domesticated as the little mongrel and shattered my dream. This harpy seemed non too pleased and demanded I return my newfound friend. Women have always denied me pleasure..."

"The spirits of my forefathers haunt me in my dreams and bottled spirits can no longer purge the torture. My visions drove me to visit the grave of my father, whose dying wish was to be buried in the gardens of the old emperor himself, his grave pointing towards his place of birth. As I stood facing the monument that marks the bed from which he will never wake, a cross atop his encased and lifeless body, I realised there was something amiss.I feel a growing need to learn about my ancestors, my lineage, my past relatives. I yearn for the familiarity of kin, the recognition of fame and flaw one only sees in one's forebears."

"In the streets, her flamingo coloured hair enticed me to speak to her. Clearly impressed by my physical appearance, she agreed to join me in an inn of reputable standing. As is becoming of a lady of class, she inquired about my wealth. After we agreed to trade an amount that satisfied her inquisition, she started to undo the strings of my codpiece. I had great plans for her, but as I showed her the tome of carnal knowledge, she fled in dismay! Although this ancient Indian book did not feature positions for a lonely participant, the illustrations tickled my imagination enough to stretch my undergarment..."

"I felt like a visitor to what is closest to a home. My ancestor's castle stood as magnificently as I could remember it. Yet, I chose not to dwell on feelings of lost chances, but to revell in this splendour like a true visitor and have a flashbox graft a reflection of myself onto paper. My trusted blade perfectly balanced the photo-chamber at the proper distance and, as it is considered appropriate according to my knowledge of nowaday culture, like the minstrel Tupac, I identified myself by holding my hand in a 'W' shape. My chronicler calls this a "selfey". I say: "It's Wolfram, bitches!""

"Even though bravery, justice and valour are evident in my appearance, there remains some doubt as to my ancestry. The lack of clear documentation on my part raises questions about the validity of my knighthood.
I have taken up a quest to find a royal house to bestow knighthood upon me. A royal house to which I vow:
- to fulfill any and all duties bestowed upon me by my monarch.
- to keep faith, following St. George Michael's proze
- to protect the innocent, to punish the injust and to guard the purity of ladies. I shall take their virginity and keep it safe from others.

My journey led me to the oldest reigning monarch, the Queen Elizabeth. Her refusal of my services drove my desperation into a frenzy as I roamed the streets of the City, yelling about how I am a mere foreigner, willing to work harder for less compensation. I have been made to believe that the conclusion of their frustration with me is now called a 'Brexit'.

Amongst constructions of various retail, I found the palace of a true King! A feast was in full sway in the main hall and the kitchen was bursting with activity. The plebeians gorged themselves on oozing meat on bread and crunchy sticks of a yellow vegetable I could not recognise. Their children played horrible sounding instrumentations, fashioned of colourful cups and straws, to make one want to sear ones ears shut onto the kitchen grills.

I requested passage into the throneroom and was directed to a hallway, where a little girl sat crying for her parents. Upon learning of my duties, she made me haste to clarify myself, asking me wether it would be a number one or a number two. Stating I needed to fulfill all duties, she led me into the shimmering throneroom and told me to pick a throne for myself. Alas, Princess of the Burger Kingdom, I could not sit on a throne so glorious before first entering into your service.

Since she did not have the proper regalia on her, I fashioned her a sword and knelt once more, to be inducted into the tier of knights and noblemen. My impression of her could not have prepared me for the mighty blow that followed my request for the gentle tap known as an accolade. Had it not been a blunt sword of wood, she would have decapitated me! Nevertheless she dubbed me Sir Wolfram, knight-servant of the Burger King, protector of the porcelain throne, keeper of duties.

As I woke from the debilitating blow to my neck and exited this golden hall of marble thrones, a flame-grilled feast welcomed me. My songs of joy were less appreciated by the seated thralls, whose food I claimed. As Lady Fortune smiled upon me, it didn't require more than one public beheading for them to see my true nobility."

"As demand is growing for my magic blue potion, thralls were required to fulfill the tasks of delivery. In the forests behind my wheeled laboratory, I found a following of seven hard-working men, stout in appearance. Once upon a time, they operated a small-scale mining company, until a roving necrofiliac prince took control of their mines to pay for his ostentatious wedding.

Although their size would suggest the contrary, a greater work ethic I have never seen. Their assignments they fulfilled with joy, not wanting more reward than a roof to sleep under and a bowl of porridge to fill their bellies. But their gleeful demeanor turned to their doom, as their restless singing of 'heigh-ho' plucked at my nerves like a blackbird digging for a worm. Their whistling of the same tune had to my ears become so despicable that a mere pouting of their lips stirred a lust for slaughter inside my tormented mind.

So on a midsummer's night, heavy with mosquitos and the stifling odours of the blooming wilderness, I found myself in the forest upon their shack and summoned them to gather their digging tools. One by one, I had them dig their own, half-sized graves in the leaf-covered soil. Unbeknownst to them, they had carried out their final chore. As they merrily congregated in front of me, it only took but one fell swoop of my cold blade to strike the light from their eyes and send their heads in opposite direction from their bodies. No man whose death becomes him under the service of a true knight should rest without a proper burial, and therefore I fashioned the symbolic crosses of christianity to sanctify their eternal sleep.

It wasn't until then that I noticed but six graves, where I expected seven. The little lout was bound to return, I deduced from his porridge still on the table. No sooner had I started digging the unknowing dolt's grave, when he turned up with a bag of mushrooms and snared squirrels he gathered nearby. Our emotions were evident as we gazed into eachother's eyes. He feared for his life. I was hungry. And so, a deal was made. Squirrel and mushroom stew with porridge for dessert does truly quiet the nerves. The mushrooms seemed to make the dwarf a little dopey, too. Who knows, I might just let this one live."

The atrocities from my delinquent past have caught up with me in a fashion most righteous. It appears that my recipe and the product it leads to, are not at all like the soothing pills or ointments one begets from an apothecary. They are more akin to the invigorating potions of a wizard, and it seems this magic is forbidden. The sherrif's men seized my inventory and then demanded to know about the six half-sized, expertly dug graves they found near a hovel in the woods.

Six counts of manslaughter were added to the list of my wrongdoings and the judge was not in agreement with my plea of them being half-men and that I should not receive more than half a punishment. And here I find myself now; incarcerated like a common thief, stripped of my sword and armour, forced to accept the dullness of my permanent abode. Only the occasional riot riles my ageing heart. To enter the courtyard as in days of old, ready to fight ones opponent in fair battle and take home a victory so glorious that bards would dull their feathers writing my songs.

The guards do not care for fair battle. They use a smoke so vile, it rivals the stench of my cooking and brings even the strongest to their knees, desperately avoiding the explosive departure of their burning innards. The rebellious nature of my cohabitant scum has their numbers dwindling. We are so few, that even the guards seem to have lost interest.

This fortress' upkeep is waning as its guardians are abandoning their tasks. But I shall remain. My shame will bind me.

"Every week, the uprisings claim lives among the inhabitants of this forsaken castle. Factions, clans and gangs all strive to dominate the courtyard, only to fall victim to the ironhanded rule of our wardens. Some of the miserables perish in their sleep by accidentally rolling onto a knife, crudely fashioned out of a toothbrush. Others spend their time gnawing on the bars of their cells.

How rare it is, in circumstances of such gravity, to meet an artistic soul with an eye for beauty and the skills to portray it. One of the last to remain, he took note of my epic tale and the adventures that washed my body upon these muddled shores.
So he promised to adorn my body with a fitting icon. A symbol to portray my struggles and my victories. As his needle hammers its pigments into my shoulder, there is nothing for me but prayer and the hope to gain access to a mirror one day, and bask in the glory of my own iconic piece of art."

Absent from the otherwise dulling presence of other humans, I yearned for a companion of sorts to keep my mind from collapsing into itself. From the courtyard, I took with me an unassuming leather sphere. It seemed as abandoned as I felt in this empty fortress. But its deflated state made it unworthy for bouncing and so I marked upon it a face of jolly expression.

I dubbed my new companion Parzival, after my forebear's tale of this grail-hunting knight. I shared with him my stories of great hope and devastating sadness, emboldening conquests and love unrequited. Alas, when drawing his left eye, my pencil proved too sharp for the leather and separated the old, worn out cowskin. My friend looked at me with a smile and a wink from the gaping hole that was to be his left eye.

I winked back at him, widened the hole gently with my wetted finger and murmured:"friend with benefits...".