Receiving death-threats is nothing new to me. Living in a state of sheer, unbridled luxury and hedonism as I do, I am prone to angry missives fired off from those less fortunate than I, on an alarmingly regular basis.

These range from passionately detailed essays written by seething socialists, to hastily-scrawled notes written in blood and with, more often than not, the word ‘murder’ horribly mis-spelt.

There was something about this latest letter, however, that made my brow furrow slightly deeper than a man with as smooth a complexion as I should allow.

Yet I could not place my finger on what it was that troubled me so.

Botter tried to ease my ceaseless fretting by offering to expunge my anal passage clear of any trace of fecal matter, but it was to no avail – I was far too occupied to fully appreciate his tireless efforts.

It was later on in the day, while I was watching Botter accidentally set himself ablaze while trying to light a gas-lamp, that finally I found out what it was that was causing me so much concern.

It was the fact that whoever had written that note, had decided to leave a return address…

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