EPILOGUE

I noticed with some dismay this week the note left on my desk which read ‘We hate you. You will die soon. We will each take turns with the saw. - Your loving daughters."

Imagine my concern! I have no daughters. After some enquiries, I learned that my work-mates here in Plonker Towers were responsible for the note! Seemingly, they were patently unamused by my practical jape last month. Simon, our Illustrious Leader, told me that his father never regained consciousness (you’re dead, you sick fucker - Ed.), and I have heard Angus Sheephugger grumbling that the surgeons could only re-attach one of his feet.

That’s the last time that I arrange a surprise Christmas party for anyone.

While I’m sitting here this morning writing this, I’ve just noticed another note under my keyboard. It reads, "There’s cyanide in your coffee! Got you, you fat bastard. - Plonker."

Oh, dear. I’ve already had seventeen cups today. Ah, well, I suppose this is the last time you’ll be hearing from me. You know, I preferred working for PC Plonka. Now that was a real plonker’s magazine, packed with articles about cheese and diesel locomotives. I was appreciated there. They hardly ever tried to kill me. There was one time when the editor nearly pulled off my.... (Mr. Tedium was not able to continue his final column because I cut off his arms with a welding torch. What a relief. Next issue, this part of the magazine will be filled with money-off coupons for many Heinz tinned products, so don’t miss out! Reserve your copy of issue 2 of PC Plonker today! - Ed.)