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the Introduction from
'The Complete Short
Works of Daniel Pagoda
EDITOR’S NOTE: The following pages were written by cult writer Daniel Pagoda (1952-1998) shortly before his untimely death. They were to be included as the introduction to The Complete Short Works of Daniel Pagoda. Sadly, it turned out to be the last thing he wrote. Out of respect for our dear friend and his wishes, plans for the book were abandoned.
he book you now hold in your hands is the product of my friend and editor Virgil Vishnoo’s tireless efforts to preserve my indicted past. Most of these stories were written in my ignorant youth, solely to pay the bills. They were submitted to no-name pulp magazines who gladly paid for the grisly stories that flowed with a disturbing ease from my head. Consequently, most are of average quality. Some are good. One is horrendous.
Virgil is a gracious, congenial man, as much as he is authoritative. Somewhere between those two sides of personality he finds an equilibrium, which, considering his line of work, works well for him. He has the very annoying habit of telling it like it is, and the even more annoying habit of almost always being right, which causes problems for someone like myself.
I was eating breakfast the morning he called to talk to me about this book. My meal that morning was a capitulation of the previous evening’s marathon writing session, which had ended merely twelve minutes beforehand. I had promised myself nourishment solely on the condition of finishing the manuscript. It seemed fitting my remission would be interrupted.
After pleasantries, I told Virgil I was just about ready to lay down dead, and, in three days time, rise from the grave, bringing to his offices the edited manuscript.
“Not so fast,” he scolded. His assertive nature was rising. “I want to talk to you about those papers you sent back.”
“What papers?”
“Don’t play dumb, Daniel. You sent back the scripts for the short story collection without signing off on them.”
“Right,” I said with calculated disinterest. “I don’t think we’ll be doing that.”
He moaned a little, wearied by the prospect of arguing with me.
I advised Virgil to check page 174 of the copy he’d sent to my house. Through the other end of the telephone wire, I heard pages fumbling until he stopped and read the title aloud. “What’s wrong with this story?”
“May I ask where you found it?”
“Your old undergraduate college phoned us a few weeks back. They said one of the teachers found it while cleaning out her office. I thought you might be pleasantly surprised to see it.”
I informed Virgil that pleasant surprise was definitely not what I felt.