A Furious Dispatch From Our Intern August Strindberg!
The frauditity is fraudulent, much like the she-succubus who lures one into her she-void with muttony aromas only to bestow a lifetime of soiled overcoats. I speak of course of this Morris James sham, a rotting embryo of manhood. His incites are blind, his nicknames are nickel-plated, and his overcoat knows not the stench of Strickland. Why, this newcomer carpetbagging Johnny-come-lately could not even hoist a cheeseboot, even if said cheeseboot were to be emptied of cheese.
A flare has been fired and the crystals embedded in our palms are aglow -- all interns must assemble, from all corners of the globe and Silver Spring.
I mounted a steed in Norra Begravningsplatsen and rode like the wind, until the furious saddle chafing aggravated a bed sore. Infection set in and I was forced to stop in Vilnius, where Brother Nesby rubbed a soothing balm (two parts coca, one part bacon grease) into my throbbing loins. I remounted, but my decaying nag broke down in Caucus Mountains and I had no choice but to crawl within her fetid carcass for protection from the harsh winds of the steppe.
It is from within from said carcass that I write now, but August is not vanquished! I have not felt such vim since my youth, since dark Sabrina, she of the bangles and curls and chlamydia! I will soon reach Landover, joining my brethren Jarkko, Dana, Chenier's Ghost, all my mates-in-arms, and justice shall be ours! Our overcoats shall be splattered with the blood of the infidel, and Buckhantz will insert the final dagger.
Ride fast August! Tie up your horse at Spencers Gifts!