My twisted little baby. How could have I guessed that something so sick as you could spring from the recesses of my mind? And how could have I guessed that, in some warped way, you would please and amuse others? My twisted little baby, yet another lovechild from the union of sick humor and crime fiction — at first just an inspiration, at first just an idea for exploring a fascinating, though little-known, activity. My sweet child taking a life of its own, developing into its full, grotesque, short-story form. My twisted little baby, you are the reason I write fiction. Weeks after your creation, I still laugh when I think of you, still puff my chest with pride for having sprung you.
My twisted little baby, I am glad you are mine. But now it’s time to fly, little one. Fly and spread your wings.