The Nonesuch and Others

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The man who features in the following trilogy of stories is in no way typical of a majority of characters in my other stories and novels, for by and large I write of heroes. And the reason I make no mention of his name is because—like Clint Eastwood in those spaghetti westerns—he doesn’t have a name; I didn’t give him one. And even when he gives himself one in this small book’s title story, it’s a pseudonym.

You’ll see what I mean.

Unlike that cheroot-smoking fellow in the poncho, however, and as I’ve hinted above, my Man With No Name isn’t a hero nor even an anti-hero. (But he’s no coward either, well not especially.) Why, in The Nonesuch he might even appear rather brave—or perhaps stupid and ridiculously naive, depending on your point of view.

But however you look at it, my Man With No Name is just an innocent bystander who happens to be standing by in the wrong place at the wrong time: a witness to terrifying occurrences, monstrous events, who can never be one hundred per cent positive that the things he has experienced are real. And why not? Because a man who sees pink elephants might as easily see just about anything!

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