Heck no, I did not wear a frigging mask. Why should I? In fact, when I received the e-mail from higher-ups, I torched the message with a butane lighter. Burned the order to a crisp, crackling, crunch, I did. A feeling of bliss washed over my being.

Before I go any further allow me to say salutations to all my little kid-a-roos out there. I won't let on where I've been hiding out, oh let's just say for the last sixty months. That's none and yen. But, I'm back. You missed me?

My name is Doctor I.B. Howler, Nightmarologist. My stories, Nightmares, as I prefer to call them, are suitable for children of all ages and should be graciously told to the whippersnappers as they are being put to bed. The younger the small fries are the better.

I am now the County Mortician. My sole responsibility is to make the dead become the very best versions of themselves they can be. After all, the better condition their organs are in the more cashola I make selling them on the Black Market. But, hush, that's our secret, okay?

I have created a lavish lifestyle for myself through the fruits of my hard labor. Over the years, I have touched many lives. My impact will not soon be forgotten. I've always believed if I can't be the favorite son, I'll be the prodigal one. Suits me way past a capital T. Know what I mean, Sherlock?

On the local news front, my best liked being Channel 6, KRAK-TV, the county has experienced a recent significant spike in overdoses. Probably from a wider availability of popular street drugs, like fentanyl. This beauty typically resulted in the user doing a fancified two-step of dizziness. These hilarious contortions often followed by their limp body crashing to the ground into a deep, dark, coma. Deep and dark. Two of the most chicest colors. That's when they pay me their final visit. I treat them all like long-lost cousins. They say family first, right?

There have been so many they outnumber more than those killed in car wrecks and by gunshots combined. Anything that keeps me employed and lines my pockets deeper, I'm all for. The other news I liked to hear about are opioid deaths. Their grim totals signaled a public health crisis in never before seen volumes. I just sat back, smiled, and took it all in. Ka-ching!

Mainly cut down in the prime of their lives, these dead are usually only twenty-five to fifty-five years old. Youth is served. Because younger organs fetch much more moolah in my realm of existence. The cockles of my heart are warmed by the downstream consequences of their demise, and those effects on whatever friends and families they leave behind.

Did I mention fentanyl works about one hundred times as powerfully as morphine? When added to other manufactured druggies in a cocktail, fentanyl is even stronger. But, who am I to moralize? Do I need to mention all the business I gather from those who snort cocaine, abuse meth, or consume too many pain pills? I feel no sympathy for them. None. I'll just stay at my autopsy table and await their arrival. Doubt if it shant be very long.

Oh the pleasure of marketing organs is such a national gold mine. Wouldn't you like to become my trusty assistant and wealthy beyond your wildest imagination?

No, I didn't wear a frigging mask. Why should I? I'm not the one who's dead and rotting away. All I can say is keep on doing what you're doing, my little kid-a-roos. See you soon. Wonder how many greenbacks you'll fetch me when we meet?

Sleep tight now.

Until the next time!

Doctor I.B. Howler
Nightmarologist