It was in the deepest recesses of that land known as Tasmania, where I first heard the siren call of the Spooky Men. Their demands for me to join their sonorous clique were persistent and, as it would prove, irresistable. At that stage I knew only the reputation of this terrible band of wandering minstrels. From the Blue Mountains, where they have their lair, they travel freely, riding out from time to time to wherever their whims take them. Up lonely roads, and even through the skies, they come. Whether in crowded cities, among the vagabonds' tents or through empty towns, long past their prime, the spooky men move largely unnoticed among the unsuspecting inhabitants of the "real" world. In their obscurity lies their great power.
And now I had been called. I pondered long over whether to accompany them on their travels. For the spooky call is not lightly given, nor may it be received lightly. Lightly not it has the reception into the ear of the receiver.....
I feared what might be if I assented and made my own way into spookidomliness. For, even though they were asking that I give myself only for a brief time, I knew that where the spooky men go, mystery and danger go with them.
Through long nights I examined myself. I then took time to consider my position. Was I up to the task? Was I brave enough? Strong enough? Pretty enough? Could I, a humble "top" (as they would have me), albeit with travels of my own of which to speak, take among them my place, rankswise? Did not the risk I run that soon backwards would my words become inevitably? Already I felt their power.
Missives were exchanged. Texts, both ancient and modern, examined, sent and received. And finally I made my choice. My way was set. I would bow to their will.
I would become a Spooky Man!