In all my life, truer words have not been spoken then these, spoken by a true friend of mine, her name lost to the ages. "Every fight is a food fight when you are a cannibal." These words have shaped my life in a countless number of ways. My name is, as some of you may be aware, Mr. Norbert "Andlat" von Hefflehorn. I was born in a hospital in Iceland on February the twenty-eighth in the year of our lord (Archibald) eighteen hundred and ninety-two. Naturally, this makes me very close to being old. (My associate Archibald assures me that I am still young at heart.) I lived my first two decades in Iceland, but then, on the eve of my twenty-first birthday, my traveler's spirit awoke, and I began my epic journey to that wonderous place known as the United States of America. Once I arrived, I made my homestead in that town of sin known as San Francisco. I soon had a steady job as an erotic photographer, and I soon found myself swept up in the life that is that of a man of my occupation. I held this job until 1956, when I met my true love, Ms. Nymphadora Higgins. Sadly, she passed away of tuberculosis within five days of our meeting. This, naturally, affected my life greatly, and it was at this time that I began writing. Naturally, my first few (read: 700) pieces were absolute bollocks, and I soon fell into a great dispair. (sigh forlornly)
However, a change of luck was on the horizon, for in 1958, I was hit by a milk truck. After a successful lawsuit, I recieved a grand sum of fourteen dollars and nineteen cents. I was indeed, at last, dirt poor, for as I had laid there shortly after being knocked unconcious by the truck, vagabonds had emptied my pockets, which sadly had contained my life's savings. (I have never trusted banks.) Needless to say, after that, I was temporarily stricken mute by the shock. I was committed to a mental asylum, where I stayed until the pyromaniacs burned it down. I was the sole survivor. Since that fateful day, I have had to remain in hiding, even to this very day.
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