A Lowercase Missive From Our Munt Byron Coley

i became aware of a human named dylan nyoukis when a friend returned from a mid-'90s uk tour, complaining loudly about some asshole who had invaded his band's backstage area, consuming every drop of “strong water” on the premises before anyone could do anything. he had left only some horrible noise cassettes in his wake, and we listened to them thinking about all the good booze that had been quaffed in return for these sonic turds. chocolate monk? what the hell was that? some sort of trick candy that smells like ass? when i try to imagine how much liquor has been transmuted into these rotten cassettes over the last quarter century i am gripped by a thirst so deep it almost makes me weep.

but there are no tears strong enough to stanch the thick flow of the chocolate monk and his master, father nyoukis. perhaps now, 25 years deep, it is time to just surrender to the slurry. it is rare that a plot so mad can be sustained for this long. but dylan has found a way to do it.
all hail the monk.