Sirs and madams, something very odd has happened, and I wish to make you aware of it.

I maintain regular correspondence with an associate of mine who lives in the Americas, and who, as you might well imagine, is an intellectual and a gentleman, of good sense and upbringing. Today, I received a parcel from him which contained, along with his usual letter, some twenty bundles of what appeared to be parchment. Each bundle was bound with a thin, fraying length of red string, and the pages of stiff, yellowing parchment were filled with words that had been penned in a fine, if somewhat faded, penmanship.

Befuddled, I read the letter, in which, after pleasantries and talk of a few other matters, my associate explained that the bound volumes of antiquated parchment, which I would find in the package, had been left in a weathered, old cardboard box on his doorstep, where, much to his surprise, he had found them one morning last week. It was impossible, he said, to know who had left the documents there or who exactly had written them, for the author simply gives his name as “Jonathon” and reveals little else about himself.

My associate went on to say that it did not particularly matter who had left them or who had written them, though he declared that, should the identities of those men ever come to light, he would shower them with well-deserved rewards for the service they had done him. What was important, he insisted, was that the documents had been written, and that together they comprised a story that was so memorable, so amusing, and so impossibly true that, upon reading it for himself, he had felt the urgent need to share it with someone. Knowing my passion for and expert knowledge of literature, he had immediately thought of me and had arranged for the bundles to be delivered to me with all possible care, and he wished for me to read the story written on the pages so that we might both discuss it at length.

My friends, I do not quite know what to make of the behavior of my associate, for he is, in truth, a very calmly disposed individual, and he is not easily excited by any means. I am especially perplexed by his claim that the story written on the bundles of parchment is true, for I have those bundles here before me, and, glancing over the first page, which seems to be a sort of foreword and dedication from the author, I see that it makes mention of unknown kings and wars, dwarves and orcs, wizardry, and a number of other nonsensical things that are plainly unreal. I fear that my associate must have taken leave of his senses if he would profess such a text to be factual in nature, and I find myself worrying after his health.

Nevertheless, as a gentleman, I will heed his request, for he is a loyal friend of mine, and few things afford me greater pleasure than the reading of a good story. I shall, in fact, do more than simply heed his request—as I read each chapter of this story (for as I examine the bundles, I see that they have been thoughtfully organized, and that each one tells the events of a single chapter), I shall post it here in this classy blog-about, and I shall include my reactions to its content. In this way, sirs and madams, you shall be privy to this mysterious tale, if you so wish to be, and you shall be free to decide for yourselves, as I shall, if it merits the glowing recommendation which my associate has bestowed upon it.

Ever yours, and ever classy,

Good Sir Darcy