As I grow increasingly ancient, and therefore more prone to the rapacious violations of that great pervert Father Time, I become imprisoned in my own loath-some flesh. My fore-arms have mostly succumbed to the leprosy, my iron dentures periodically rust together, and, just yesterday, I was awakened from a sound sleep by the concussive gun-shot sounds of boils bursting off my calves.

But this, of course, has always given me a crucial advantage: My enemies–a caste to which you simpering, treasonous readers most certainly belong–under-estimate me as soon as they see the iron lung, the skull-brace, the maggots squirming beneath my skin, the eyelid-ulcers, the piles, and the prescription muzzle. But I am twice as sharp as the dozen smartest of you peasants, and don't you forget it!

My mental acuity is renowned throughout the Eastern Sea-board, and my business-adversaries still speak of my great brain in hushed, awed tones. Do I not captain the greatest news-paper in all the Republic? Was I not the first to incorporate the Aegyptians' Great Pyramid into my business-scheme? Did I not invent castor-oil? Am I not... Not...

Aieeeeee! I am trapped inside a great iron crushing machine! This metal cylinder is squeezing the breath out of me! To me, my horse-men! Crush this clock-work golem! A dollar to the man who frees T. Herman Zweibel! A dollar! Aieeeeee!

Where was I? Some-times, you see, my swift intellect runs ahead of itself, following its own flight of fancy. In this fashion, I was able devise a plan to make the entire Nation dependent on coal-oil, wheedle forth the secrets of the Electoral College, and defeat Orson Welles' great army of mechanical Martians. Such genius is a burden.

Yeeaagh! In the mirror! A hideous, un-dead zombi! Avaunt! Away, beast-thing! Summon my exorcist! Summon my Ukrainian antipope! Help!

A burden, yes, but it is also a tool I combine with my privileged station and inherited fortune to manipulate you all. For example, when my grand-father wished to burn Chicago to the ground, it was I who...

No, Mother! I did not eat your sugar-lard! Put down the belt, Mommy, I will wear the frock to school! I will wear the pretty frock!

What? Ah, yes. And with the help of the Teamsters, the Wright Brothers were quickly and quietly disposed of. As you plainly see, despite my age, my thought still flows quick and clear. So whatever revolution you are fomenting, you had God-damn well better not try it!