In this light, certainly a tribute of biography seems absurd, not to mention any desire to pen one. Some explanation is thus in order, an explanation which might prove an illustrative example of the man. Upon rising to the office of governor of this great state (which state it is has yet to be explained to me—a circumstance which shall soon become clear to the reader), Zweibel, before converting the entire area into a gigantic strip-mine, established a monastic order for the sole purpose of chronicling his history in the event of his passing. This brotherhood took in foundlings from across the state and cloistered them in the vast sub-sub-basement of Zweibel's 632-room mansion, raising them within the synthetic Eremitic Order, and, being that the general population was enslaved in the pit mining of borax, most male children were donated to the basement monastery as soon as they started on solid food. Therefore, I have lived my entire life in this set of dark subterranean rooms.
When T. Herman Zweibel was launched into space three years past, an armed expedition of Swiss Guard financed by the executors of his will were surprised to find the last of us here. We had taken to living in a vast armoire, waning pale as moles, subsisting on candles, obscenely literate after decades of poring over the vast stacks of books Zweibel had confiscated from peasants and consigned, alongside ourselves, to purgatory. Upon learning that, under the conditions of Zweibel's will, we were not to be freed but pressed at once into the service of maintaining this baffling electrical document, all save myself committed immediate suicide. This superseded the necessity, detailed in the will, to eliminate all of the Brotherhood but one, so suppose I must count myself lucky. I have been down here 67 years, or at least for 67 “years supply” boxes of candles, and would not have survived the instructions in that proviso.
And now an anecdote—not that anecdotal history is legitimate, but history and truth have the same relationship as theology and faith, that is to say, none; and an old, albino, imprisoned man may gain nothing by lying about those long dead, or launched into space; so I beg indulgence in this matter.