Elliott Murphy was my name. Or rather, someone else’s.
For Fudgeman was born anew.
No longer beholden to the triflings of the outer quadrants - friendship, macaronis - I saw Him in all his blinding glory.
Your corporeal form mighty from javelins, hammer throws and racewalking, you are ready to combat the Visitors, yes – but it is until you ascend that you can vanquish.
The Visitors. That which you were.
My brethren. My sisters. Heed The Angel Of The Red Wood. And on Resonant Day, we shall be as Coach P intoned: We shall give it our all. We shall go out there and get them.
We will triumph.