And the reason I make no mention of his name is because—like Clint Eastwood in those spaghetti westerns—he doesn’t have a name; I didn’t give him one. And even when he gives himself one in this small book’s title story, it’s a pseudonym. You’ll see what I mean. Unlike that cheroot-smoking fellow in the poncho, however, and as I’ve hinted above, my Man With No Name isn’t a hero nor even an anti-hero. (But he’s no coward either, well not especially.) Why, in The Nonesuch he might even appear rather brave—or perhaps stupid and ridiculously naive, depending on your point of view. But however you look at it, my Man With No Name is just an innocent bystander who happens to be standing by in the wrong place at the wrong time: a witness to terrifying occurrences, monstrous events, who can never be one hundred per cent positive that the things he has experienced are real. And why not? Because a man who sees pink elephants might as easily see just about anything! So then, and as stated, this rather different character of mine is by no means a typical hero; but if you the reader were confronted by the bizarre, inexplicable nonesuches whose paths tend to cross his in the following stories…well, how brave would you be?
