Things were looking up, readers. The sun was shining, snow was melting, and the threat of another government shutdown was thwarted. Life seemed to be moving in a positive direction.

That all came to an end when I got a phone call from a man I thought had surely vanished from reality.

A 300lb. Greek attorney named Stephen Adonis.

If you came into these articles with any recognition of my New England witch doctor, you are sure to know the man who I was once foolish enough to call my attorney.

And if none of you have a clue as to what I’m talking about, consider yourselves lucky, and be warned, dangerous times are ahead of us.

Adonis is the man responsible for getting me into most of the trouble I encountered during my time as a freelance journalist, back before I got sensible and started writing for the Wayne Stater.

It was just one example of cruel irony after another, with him dragging me into situations I never asked to be a part of, having him force feed me a whole array of medieval concoctions that left me either brain dead or out of control, and then we would always find ourselves on the run.

I can’t tell you the number of times we’ve been chased from one side of the globe to another, all in the pursuit of the truth, only to have that overweight nightmare from Athens ruin it while having the audacity of calling himself my lawyer.

Not that I have anything against Athens (but I have quite a bit against members of the legal profession). No, we should always pay homage to the birthplace of democracy, but Adonis is an insult to all that fantastic place has to offer.

The man was and always will be a first-rate conman. I could only believe about 10% of the things he said, and even if they proved to be true, it always seemed like a bad ending was awaiting us anyway.

The shyster called to tell me he had gotten out of being summarily executed in a back-alley poker game somewhere in Kazakhstan, and he was needing a place to lay low, escape the heat.

You better believe I told the bastard that he couldn’t come here, not with all of the young and impressionable college students wandering about, but he wouldn’t listen, not even when I threatened to have Rum Brain Moe inflict some serious voodoo upon him.

Nothing would make him listen, readers, and so if you have a chance, I’d advise leaving Wayne for about a year, it might take that long to finally have him grow bored of this town. Believe me, I once saw him manage a 14-month rampage across Venice, and by the end of it all, not a single gondola would take passengers, everyone was just too afraid to be seen out in the open with that gin-fueled monstrosity running around, bothering everyone.

Of course, if we’re lucky, he might just not be able to find Wayne, and perhaps he’ll go bother the folks in another town. Believe me when I say that it’s better them than us.