Sal Oberon, Master Storyteller and Part-Time Shyster Magnet, was born sometime in what we like to call 2002: spurted into existence as an equal and opposite reaction to being dumped on from a very great height (again, and not for the last time).

Let’s not call him a fairy: let’s just say he’s reality-challenged. For some as yet unfathomable reason known only to the random forces of chance and universal apathy at his general lot, Sal Oberon attracts all the bat guano of modern life so you don’t have to. Sure, you get some splatterings but Sal Oberon’s special power is his ‘moron, cretin and full-on idiot traction beam’ (permanently on and pulling in the dregs of all society like an irresistible force of wanton self-psychological sacrifice).

Sal Oberon lives in a forest not far from what we call reality (metaphysical constructs notwithstanding, that’s just down the road, turn left at the little shop of paranoia on the corner). After a minor spurt of rant activity back in what we like to call 2002, he went into hibernation for a while, then sank and bobbed back up to the surface again.

Every so often, the time seems right to hold the little bastard by the ankles and shake and wake him up. In the fullness of time, plenty of guano will continue to fall sporadically on his head.


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