Dear Penthouse... Sadly, this is not that kind of letter.
Which is not to say that it couldn't be. Your boy's still got it. But not this time.
And it's not about the Evil Dead (tm) either. Not yet, anyhow. You never know with those bastards. They might yet show up to piss in everyone's Corn Flakes.
No, this time it's about some unnamed Mediterranean island. I'm sure it has a name, but damned if anyone I've asked can tell me what it is. Also, I can't leave. I tried hiring a local guy with a boat to take me elsewhere. He tried. And when we got far enough from shore suddenly we were approaching the island from the other side. He was not pleased. He seemed to think I was responsible. I think he made the sign of the evil eye at me behind my back. (You fight the evil dead long enough and you develop eyes in the back of your head. Not literally, mind you. Unless you get possessed, then who the hell knows?)
So...I'm starting a business. Guy's gotta eat, and the $15,000 I got for seed money won't last--so I spent it on acquiring a place. Now I own The Pour House, me and the bank. It's a nice little place on the beach, with a walk-up window. It'll be ready to open soon. I've hired a guy to manage the place while I sit on the beach drinking and watching pretty girls. He's another refugee, Eddie Saville. And he's already hired at least one bartender, another refugee, Hannah Lewis. Speaking of pretty girls....
Anyhow, that's life on Mysterious Island. Mystery Island? Mystic Island? Whatever.
Oh. Also, I'm currently a cartoon. More on that later.