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I was sitting on my computer, obviously checking my email, when I happened upon this horrible message. I had no idea that the tools of my trade felt so shunned. Of course I don't sign their names or give them credit on every single piece of my work, but I thought that went without saying. Of course I need them. Of course I know how much they do for me. How could they think that of me? And then I saw the signature...none other than...

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PAINTBRUSH! This rabble-rouser had been causing me trouble for years. Mixing with shady colors, tainting the water supply, and overall producing shoddy work that made us all look bad. It just got worse when he started shooting cadmium and his bristles started falling out. As anyone would, I had replaced him years ago. It wasn't without a few bad words that we parted ways, but I thought we had reached an understanding...but apparently not.

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I questioned his local posse--The Mars Black Gang--but they had nothing to say. I tried to tell them that I really did appreciate what they did for me, but it didn't seem to move them. When I asked them about the "torture" they had planned, they only said "You'll find out soon enough." They all disappeared the next day. So I waited in fear for about a week, keeping an eye out for any strange activities. I started noticing other strange disappearances--pencils ducked one by one out of the drawer, scissors skulked away under the bed, and paint simply went missing. I had to wonder if paintbrush was slowly taking out my allies--or just gathering together my enemies.

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Then one day this mysterious package appeared on my bed.

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I thought they had planned torture for me; why were they giving me gifts? I examined it closely before touching it, wondering if this was some Trojan horse type of thing (and if it was, they had done a very poor job of it). Slowly, carefully, a began to go through the contents.

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I found these disturbing images--all renderings of my face or name--but I had not had a hand in it. This first one was most ominous: paintbrush's mode of intimidation, no doubt.

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The my name appeared with an array of strange symbolism. They had been watching me, studying my life, to gather the information this drawing held. Paintbrush had turned the pens against me, along with the Sharpies. How could they?

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Also disturbing. What could they all mean???

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And they had mercilessly murdered the magazines--they would have stood by me until the end. Now look at them, their mutilated bodies put on display all to get to me. Paintbrush was a sick, sick man.

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Even the paper--the very paper!--had joined him. Glue and scissors and pastels all collaborated to make this poster against me. Why?

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And this, a sort of surreal homage to both Magritte and my tattoo, made me wonder how closely paintbrush had been watching (and whether I should start getting dressed in the bathroom). "Now you know how it feels to be useless!" I heard a small voice cry. I turned to see paintbrush. "We did all this without you!" he yelled. 'We are the masters of the brush!" "Without me?" I snorted. "There would be no art without me! If you wanted to shove it in my face so much, why is this like some sort of creepy series of devotion? Why are they all pictures of me?" He stuttered and fell silent; clearly he had not seen it this way. "Well, we were going for more...threatening...than..." "Adoring?" "Yeah, that." "Well, you failed. Epically. But I can see your point. In fact, I've always seen your point; you guys are the most important things to my art!" I told him. He beamed up at me. "Well," I continued, "most important after skill...and talent...and inspiration...and..." I caught paintbrush's low growl. "But you guys are the most important," I nodded vehemently.

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So we drew up and signed an agreement stating that myself and all artistic materials involved in the creation of a piece have equal creative claims over that piece (and that's the short of it). So we've been living in relative peace, but it was indeed one of the most trying times of my entire life.