Mortalax the Dread is a local necromancer and small business owner.

Cowering mortals of Earth,

I was taking my regular stroll around the 666th level of my famous Dungeon Dimension this morning, and I noticed something peculiar. As I’m sure you know from your feeble oral tradition, I staff every level of my lair with a variety of undead horrors, aberrations from beyond the edge of the universe, and monstrosities of my own design that I make by sort of smushing a few animals together with magic until they go “pop.” This morning, there was a noticeable absence from ol’ 666 -- the 12-foot human skeletons. Folks, now that Halloween is over, it’s time to give them back.

Horrifying and deadly all of them may be, but they’re also my creations/thralls/employees, and we depend on each other. So, while I don’t like to be the bad guy (I love it), I have to ask you to return them.

The Dungeon Dimension is a delicate ecosystem, and the 12-foot human skeletons play a crucial role: The skeletons rattle and clack around the floor, shaking their rusty swords and providing perfect cover for my dear friends the Oozes to goopily surprise heroes from behind! The oozes get to eat and exercise their pseudopods, I harvest the heroes’ life force for my Ultimate Soul Gem, and I reassemble the bones into more skeletons! It’s the circle of life, or something like that but an eldritch perversion of it.

Also, not to call you out or anything (I know I’m guilty of war crimes on every plane), but it’s kind of messed up that you would buy these innocent creatures -- from Home Depot, of all places! Has everyone forgotten their election contributions? Yikes. These skeletons have feelings! Maybe they don’t want to stand outside in your yard for twelve months and be seasonally redecorated as an elaborate bit? They get ants! And just between you and me? your neighbors don’t want it either.

So. It’s November. You’ve had your fun. You’ve thrilled the entire block for a month with your highly original display of skeletons and faux gravestones with humorous epitaphs. Please don’t make me come up there and get my skeletons. At best, it’s embarrassing and awkward for both of us, and at worst I destroy your mind, flay your flesh from your bones with a thousand conjured shards of ice, and of course feed your soul to the Soul Gem.

Well, you have a week. It’s your funeral. And you don’t want to be the next “Ima Goner.”