To the faceless businessman who stands amongst the trees...

I know you're there. Watching.

Watching without eyes. Smiling with no mouth.

Do you wish to feast on my succulent flesh?

Do you wish to sup on my juicy skin?

I read somewhere that humans taste quite good.

But how would you know, when you don't even have a mouth?

You don't even have teeth to chew, or a tounge to taste.

What do you have, tall man? You have tendrils.

How many tendrils sprout from your slender back? I have counted eight.

But how do I know there is not one more back there, hiding in the shadows?

I have heard one of your names is Der Ritter.

While I find it doubtful that you have any relations to the old knight, there may be some truth about your origin.

The number nine is very important in Germanic mythology.

Is it important to you, thin man? Is it the number of tendrils sprouting from your back?

I suppose, if I ever do find out, it will already be too late.

Do not be fooled by this man's refined appearance, dear readers.

He does not simply expect you to dine.