April 1928. Desiring commitment to print and posterity the events of April 9th I, Martin Bryn-Kolkiln, hereby undertake this venture. Like a golem cast of clay I will form my demon from ink; that demon who flees tongues but lopes reluctantly to the nib. I have drained the bitter vine of hubris, survived the long hangover of the soul beached atop the debris. I do not fear the goat-legged man's piping. His revels lately make pleasant accompaniment to my scripture. My compulsion since is flight! Not contention with enigmas. Instead I would exorcise through logical cataloguing every latching fortean tendril of its memory from my mind. I confine my strange tale to the akashic guardians, noble be thy lot. Concerned friends puzzle. They sniff for foreign scents which might otherwise be found in the Afghan's smoke-drowned dens. "You know" one dared "tall tales ill-befit educated men." Decriers decry. Their spite unwholesome to my work.

"The sun melts his mind."

"I fear Bryn will soon be in."

"A long time coming at that."

"I hear he is minded toward putting that blasted story to print. Something must be done. Our forefathers coffins rattle. Even now I hear their scrapes. We shall be Europe's laughing stock. France has looted Egypt, left only scraps for England? Never worry, our best men are on it. Only recently an expedition under our patronage uncovered evidence of a giant monstrous dog, how about that, monsieur Juvin? Forget ancient tablets, what he needs is a strong chemical enema and a week in the shade." Nonetheless, I propose this tale worthy of one's limited ponderance. Henceforth I invoke the King Before, Lord of all past. Grant me three gifts that I might confront terror's gore-rouged mouth, steaming, fierce, petulant at his summoning. Steel me in this quest. Grant foresight, hindsight and clarity.