Someone's trying to send me a message.

At first, I thought it was was Raiden making another of his desperate attempts to befriend me - he's been hanging around a lot, telling me about things he sees in the park - and when I awoke to find Max's severed head in the bed next to me, I thought he was trying to win me over with kindness. (Don't worry, I've sewn Max's head back onto his body, he's fine now)

 Then, yesterday, a Mafia Don arrived at my house and demanded I cast his nephew in my new film. I tried to explain I didn't make films, and also - through a complex series of events that required much genealogical enterprise on my behalf - explain to the Don he had no nephew. But in the end, I had no luck in either endeavour.

 In a beautiful voice, one of the Mafia goons began to sing in Italian. The moving, dramatic score provided the perfect background music for the other two henchmen, who set fire to my living room.

 Beside me, in a flash of lightening, Raiden appeared.

 "Help! Fire!" I yelled enthusiastically at him.

 "Oh." He sulked. "You barely talk to me, but now you need something.... Well, I'll see what I can do."

 In Raiden's defence, of course, he didn't have mastery over rain or water or anything. But after the first few attempts, it should have become evident to him that lightening was not the solution to my problem. Huge bolts of the stuff flew from the sky, immolating my already smouldering shrubbery and destroying my carefully arranged garden Scrabble board. The roof of my house gave way under the combined forces of fire and a different fire, caused by lightening, which was to all effects and purposes identical to the first fire.

 I sighed, and went into the garage. I'd lost everything, especially the beehive that had been growing ever larger under my gutters. Those bees were meant to sustain me through old age, providing flying nourishment and sexual gratification...

 Oh well, this isn't real life. Don't cry for me, I'm already fictional.

Bear naked.

I took another look at the two figures on my doorstep. They were obviously bears - probably the same bears that usually terrorise me, they all look the same - but, over their hulking form and hairy bodies, they had donned disguises. Well, not good disguises: I couldn't tell, but I think they were meant to be Chuck Norris. Or maybe Hermione Norris. They were pretty ambiguous disguises.
 I stood looking at them. They didn't look back, instead shuffling their feet and looking at the sky or the ground. After a while, I asked what they wanted. The larger of the two looked at, taking a swipe at me with his claw. When I woke up, I was in the back of a truck, driving across bumpy terrain. Or flat terrain, covered in the elderly. Whichever it was, it didn't make for a comfortable journey.
 I don't know where they're taking me. I just hope it's not Italy. I can't go back there, the Mafia are after me.

Straightening my tie, I headed out the front door and down my drive. Busy day today, I thought to myself. Going to get a lot done. I was wrong.
At the end of my path, just in front of the open gate, lay a banana peel. I could see it from where I had stopped in shock, about 2 metres away. I watched it carefully, waiting to see what it wanted. After a few minutes of nothingness, I hopped my fence and ran to work. However, I couldn't concentrate. Slipping out at lunch, I returned home to see if it was still there.
It was - and it wasn't alone. Flanked by two heavyset men in suits, a large, moustached man stood waiting for me.
"Good morning Mr. Smith" He offered me.
"We represent," he continued with a sweep of his hand, "this gentleman's union, of which he is a member. Our member, of which this gentleman is, informs us that you have violated his right, as a working gentleman - and member of our union - to be stepped on, by your self, for the sake of slapstick comedy."
I looked at him slowly. Frankly, I didn't see how any of this could have happened, but the man in front of me didn't look like he would take kindly to such a thing. He continued:
"We understand that in today's hectic world, there is little time to engage in dangerous and unfunny slapstick. I myself have a family, you see, and often chose to spend time with them, rather than risk injury to myself and others with an accident involving a run away piano. As such, we think leaving you with this warning will be adequate reprisal for now. We would like to bid you a good day, Mr. Smith, and I hope that should we meet again, I will not be acting in such an... official capacity.
I smiled apologetically, and watched the three men get into a 1930s-styled car. While they watched, I purposefully stepped on the banana skin, throwing myself into my pond, and emerging, moments later, with a duck perched on my head.
Frankly, I regret the whole process, but I've fought the real mob before. I don't want to become embroiled with any sort of slapstick Mafia. It sounds fun, but it isn't. It really isn't