A Beginning, Of Sorts.
George said that I should start a journal. A chronicle of my travels. He said he would like to read it. George is a devilishly charming child. It’s very difficult to say no to him.
A journal, I suppose, 
is an interesting idea. I never thought of writing one before, so I discussed it with Nancy. We were having lunch at the Maud’s Azure Kitchen at the time – horrible name, but excellent food – and Nancy had just gotten through a rough morning, because she had ordered a bottle of Adrianglian Red. She doesn’t normally indulge in the middle of the day.
I imagine her work that morning must’ve involved torture. You’d think after thirty five years in service to the realm, she would grow callous, but interrogations unsettle her to this day. We all have our squirmy issues. She dislikes torture; I never enjoyed guns. I can run a man through with a sword, but watching someone’s skull explode into a gory mess after I pulled the trigger makes me slightly nauseous.
“George says I should start a journal,” I told her. “He says he would like to read my adventures.”
“You should,” Nancy said, sipping her wine. “Make it charming. Whimsical.”
I looked at her for along moment. “I don’t do whimsical.”
“Perhaps you should make an exception.”
So, I decided to give it my best shot. It has taken me two hours to settle on the title and to write it in a way I felt communicated whimsy. Sadly I’ve failed in the most miserable manner, but it will have to do for now.
