Find the Hidden Easter Egg

Dang. Nig-nag. Piffle, scrotum-scruncher.

I've been avoiding you, haven't I? I know, I know... I've been so caught in my fictional 1950's world that I've neglected to even say hello. Flying about on the backs of 12 flying monkeys, and yelling at a green wizard while mowing down a cowardly lion on a yellow brick road.

Unfortunately, I'm due at Black Rectangular Monolith International Airport first thing in the morning. I've just been informed by my superior called Tony (who also happens, by mere chance, to live in my index finger) that more work on my sculptures is required, and I may even have to destroy the life force of my favourite one.

Oh well... that's how it goes in this Cirkus.
You manufacture a story that screeches "
Roman à clef!" at the jar-shaped bell, feel great that Danny-boy finds his redemption, and allude more roman à clef about your own possibilities --

And then you execute him! Suffocate him, take away his smile, and forever leave Charles Darwin's wife's name waiting.

Oh well, indeed. Oh well, in-fucking-indeed.

Happy holidays.

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