I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.
There. That's better. Time to talk about Jimmy Cashews. Be forewarned: either everything I'm saying about him here is a lie, or else all the things said about him in other articles are lies. Since I value my fingers and wish to conserve them intact, I will not say which is the case.
Jimmy Cashews is not a Hive-Lord. In particular, he was not Zed Varren's Hive-Lord. Jimmy Cashews is not the organizer of a labor union in Iganefta-on-the-Sea. Jimmy Cashews never served time in the Azura Mines. Jimmy Cashews is no friend to Johnny Lightning. And he had nothing to do with the attempted robbery of the Harrabloon Bank. Jimmy Cashews is certainly not a Ponce Gardener. And his name is of course not Jimmy Cashews, still less "James Cashinawitz", which is somebody's feeble guess about what the nom de crime might stand for, mixed up with an even more feeble pun.
No, no. Jimmy Cashews is a thief. Jimmy Cashews is a thug. Jimmy Cashews demands money with menaces. Jimmy Cashews is a "most immoral man". Jimmy Cashews is a small-time, not to say two-bit, operator with delusions of grandeur. Jimmy Cashews loiters on street corners. Jimmy Cashews is rude to old ladies. Jimmy Cashews waxes his carapace with darseed oil and wipes it off with pochre petals. Jimmy Cashews farts in elevators, or would if he could find any. And he was too mixed up in the NoCaD, no matter what any pompous prick of a lawyer says.
Oh yes. And there is no connection between us, just because we happen to share the same initials.
There. That's that. I'll see you when it's time to write the next article. I hope.