Please note the footnotes appear poorly in this sample.

ATTENTION

The following is a printed reproduction of a handwritten diary originally

scrawled on thirty-three canvases of various sizes (the “Canvases”).

The Canvases were found buried among the rubble and corpses

of an unknown town in Appalachian Kentucky. The horrific scene was

discovered by a pair of hunters in December 2017. No earlier record of

the buried town exists and its location is classified. Further, although the

scientific community has designated the event the “Carrington

Tragedy,” no proof has substantiated that the town was in fact named

Carrington. No survivors were found. Up until now, the investigation

has been kept entirely confidential to prevent panic and conspiracy

theories from permeating the general population.

The Canvases came across my desk as the subject of a property

dispute. I represented the hunters against the federal government which

claimed eminent domain over the Canvases as evidence in the ongoing

genocide investigation. As part of the settlement agreement, further

details of which I cannot disclose, my clients retain ownership of the

Canvases in exchange for a limited license to print and reproduce the

words written on the Canvases for public distribution.

The purpose of this license is to help locate the author of the

diary, Richard Maltessouri 1 . No other record of him exists and none of

the living individuals mentioned in the Canvases have any memory of

such a person. All leads dead-end.

Past attempts to transcribe the Canvases in full have failed.

Photography cannot capture the ink due to its unique characteristics and

the problem is exacerbated by the writer’s frantic handwriting. The first

attempt at a complete transcription (the “Wade Transcription”) failed.

Only twenty or so Canvases were transcribed before the attempt ended

in tragedy.

1 The author’s assumed name since that is what he calls himself.

Fortunately, I am entirely colorblind and therefore immune to

the adverse effects of the ink. For this reason, the rest of the members

of the Investigation Oversight Committee (the “Committee”) voted

eight to one 2 in favor of delegating the task of transcription to me. 3

The Committee also voted to send me and another attorney to

Lexington, Kentucky, to depose witnesses as my transcription of the

diary identifies them. My partner volunteered and was approved by

unanimous vote due to her unique connection with the matter. Sahar

Ayubbi and I leave for our “expedition” tonight.

I am enamored by the predicament—how could a man who

doesn’t exist leave behind a diary? I’ve read the Wade Transcription

hundreds of times and, admittedly, I feel empathy for Mr. Maltessouri.

Despite his atrocious narcissism and problematic opinions, I can’t help

but feel sorry for him.

Of course, this is assuming he was ever real in the first place. I

concede the possibility that this is a wild goose chase. That the diary on

the Canvases might be a piece of immersive art by a Banksy or what

have you, or some sick practical joke that achieved the goal of being

taken seriously. Your jaw would drop if you knew the amount of public

and private resources that have been spent searching for Mr.

Maltessouri.

Nonetheless, despite every rational explanation, the Committee

cannot yet discredit the possibility that Mr. Maltessouri’s account of the

events that caused the tragedy might be true. After all, it isn’t every day

that a couple of hunters stumble across hundreds of corpses in the

middle of nowhere.

/s/ Joseph D. Blackhurst

Attorney

October 1, 2022

2 Dr. Terrance A. Milsap opposing.

3 All footnotes are my own interjections to provide pertinent context and information.

Please submit any and all information you have concerning

the author of the diary

RICHARD MALTESSOURI

to federal or local law enforcement.

CANVAS ONE

I wish the marionettes would stop trying to break through the windows.

Incredible. I’m not entirely convinced I’m still alive. I seared my thumb

pouring the jar. Tried to be careful. Hands shaking. Get rid of it. Get rid

of it. Write write write writingwritingwriting.

[Spirals] 4

Around and around. Around and around. I can’t believe I did

that but he deserved it. I hope it hurt. I hope he slowly dies. Have I

gone mad? I don't think I've gone mad. I don't think you should trust a

self-alleged madman's opinion of whether or not he's gone mad. That is,

assuming I’m still alive. Writing writing writing. Maybe I got shot in the

motel or died in that car accident. I don’t think she stabbed me with the

pickaxe, but maybe she did. Ghosts could be real at this point. Might as

well believe that too. Ghosts who don’t know they’re ghosts. I gotta be a

ghost. Yep, that’s it.

Outside, the blizzard is pitch black from the coal, I think. Or

because of whatever evil all this is. The black ashen flakes blot out the

light except for the white eyes of the marionettes watching me. I’ll be

snowed in soon. There’s no end to it. Looks to be about a foot. In New

York, I once walked in a blizzard and an old man walked toward me.

Sam was old like him and Sam got me killed. Bastard. But Sam couldn’t

walk. The old man in New York was bent over, inching along pathetic

and decrepit. The high snow on the sidewalk narrowed to the width of a

4 Certain compelling visual details of the diary are of course lost in this printed

transcription. Namely, how tiny and crammed together the words are. The sheer amount

of scribbles on Canvas One is unnerving. Violent, sharp depressions take up half the

surface area. The pen pierced through in several places. In the scribbles, you can make

out certain shapes. Arrows, stars, a poorly sketched merry-go-round. These may be

irrelevant—I find myself partial to doodling while on the phone, for example. Still, I

note these details in the event you, the reader, understand something I don’t and

perhaps these details may in fact be psychoanalytic clues to where Mr. Maltessouri might

be found.

shovel blade and I crossed it without stopping, making the old man wait

his turn. Why won’t the baby stop crying and let me write?

[Scribbles]

Sam got me killed for his wife. Figures. Women ruin men every

day. I slaved (unnoticed) to lay more and more brick down the

lonesome boot-strapped path of success toward the spotlight of their

recognition and, head down, I was brought to darkness instead. Women

operate on whims, not reason. 5 My mother worst of all. She doesn’t

even deserve to be called that. Why am I writing about her? She must

still be alive since I’m dead and she’s not here. But maybe ghosts don’t

work like that. Sam made me his puppet. But first he killed those

children. Then he killed me. Writing writing. Great, now I’m crying and

my stomach is so cut up it hurts.

[Scribbles]

Too much power for a stupid old man. Write writing writing

some more. I don’t get what’s in the well. Is it really just bugs? It bugs

me. Ha ha hah haaha. If I’m dead, maybe I can ask god what’s going on.

How do you get god to show up when you’re dead? Maybe that’s not

the way god works. Or maybe this is purgatory.

It’s kinda funny watching the marionettes get covered in snow.

I hope they freeze in the cold like bugs.

Might restore confidence in my own faculties to figure this

thing out with the entire statement of facts. Rule derivation rule

application. Rule derivation rule application. Columbia really did teach

me how to think like a lawyer. Sam said this tint 6 had rules he couldn’t

5 Apologies to any readers who take offense with Mr. Maltessouri’s words. These are his

alone and are views not shared by myself or the publisher. No part of the Canvases will

be edited or omitted during my transcription to preserve a complete record of the

evidence in order for the public to assist with the search.

6 The ink the Canvases are written in.

figure out. Yeah, well, Sam was retarded. 7 So I’ll review the record de

novo. 8 March forth my army of tiny logic ants! Euph, too soon.

What the well does with the dead is awesome (in the true

meaning of the word, not the trite meaning my generation’s overuse has

depreciated it to like so many termites). Actually, awful is a better word

for it. In both its horrific and reverential meanings. The well eats the

living. I don’t know why the well wants us but I know the well in fact

wants us and helping the well is, itself, the well of endless reward. Yes I

know the use of “in fact” is poor writing. See Strunk and White The

Elements of Style page whatever 4th edition year whatever.

There. Happy, Scott? Everyone every. . .one.

[Puncture]

Oh har har har. Red pen that all you want, but I like the ring of

that sentence. It’s sassy rhythm. (I hate parentheticals but they eat up a

couple extra drops of tint.)

Gotta figure all this out. Women ruin men. I bet Sam killed his

wife like he killed me. Amara, I think he called her. I gotta hand it to

him. The portrait he painted of her is good. I look at it next to me in

true awe. Hahahaha. Oops woke the baby back up, speak of the devil.

Wow that’s ironic. Or déjà vu or something way crazier. The baby

doesn’t like it when I try to hold it. Better to just let it work itself out.

What’s that sound?

The portraits Sam painted are pretty. I guess I’ll give him that. I

hope he didn’t die on impact. I want him to freeze slowly. Yes, freeze

really slowly. With broken leg pain. Wait, he wouldn’t feel that. He must

still be alive since I’m dead and he’s not here just like my mother isn’t.

Or maybe the problem is I’m still alive and they aren’t. Seriously, what’s

that sound? Gonna check.

7 See supra n. 5.

8 The appellate standard of review in which no deference is given to the lower court’s

determinations of law or fact.

Great. The marionettes are battering the doors now. I wish they

would just hold their horses and stop.

One is holding the horse. I need to lay down. I mean lie down. I

need to understand. I wish I knew what Sam knew.

[Spirals]

EXPEDITION NOTES

OCTOBER 2, 2022

12:10 A.M.

It’s nonsense, I know. I transcribed Canvas One—and now write these

notes—shortly after midnight at our terminal where our flight has been

delayed for six hours. Sahar objected to me taking the Canvas out of the

carrying case. She insists it’s dangerous to both the Canvases and

bystanders. I insist it’s important I use every spare minute to make

progress on the transcription to inform our witness selection and fact-

gathering decisions during our expedition. It takes both our keys to

unlock the case. We compromised by having me sit in the corner, on the

floor, away from prying eyes.

Not much can be said about Canvas One to aid the reader. It

makes as much sense to me as it does to you. So many unanswered

questions—the marionettes, the motel, the car accident, the bugs, the

baby. Ramblings of a lunatic, it seems. He may be as dead as he suggests

for all we know.

Sahar went for a walk. She says it’s a headache but she didn’t look

at the Tint. I know how she gets when she’s upset. The airline wouldn’t

let her bring Borlú as a carry-on and so they put him in a kennel in the

cargo hold. The bag check manager apologized for Sahar’s impression

that her emotional support animal paperwork was enough. Apparently,

there’s still a strict size limitation, and a 6-month-old German shepherd

clearly exceeds it. How anyone could turn an angel like Borlú away is

less clear.

I’m sure it doesn’t help Sahar’s anxiety knowing the Canvases

soon mention her.