UNKNOWN ROBBER HOLDS SHAKESPEARE ’S REMAINS FOR RANSOM

I was in the middle of clipping letters out of the Sun for my second ransom letter when there was a knock at the door. Carefully putting the bag of bones away in the closet and getting a baseball bat, I went downstairs and peeked through the peephole.

It wasn’t the cops, just some homeless guy with big ears. I opened the door, sighing. “What?”

“How now, friend?” the old bum said, smiling. “Wither wander you?”

“I don’t have any time for this, you crazy coot, get out,”

The old man put his hand in the doorway as I slammed it shut, unflinching despite the pain. “I beg thee, good sir, return the bones of poor old Will to its grave,” he said.

“Right, that’s it, you just had yourself an accident,” I snarled, grabbing the bat.

The old man was on top of me before I knew it, his gnarled hands tightening around my throat. “Don’t you know who I am?” he cackled, his face twisting into a monstrous mask.

Just a merry wanderer of the night. . .