Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart - By Jesse Bullington Page 0,165

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Acknowledgments

If only for chronological purposes, any sort of gratitude must first be directed toward my family. My parents, Bruce and Lisa, have been indispensably helpful and patient over the years of our acquaintance, and my brother Aaron and sister Tessa have shown me a sibling’s understanding of a sort markedly different from that of the Grossbarts. The entire multitude of my rabbit-like extended families are likewise deserving of mention, and of course my grandparents—particularly my grandmothers Mary and Ulamae for instilling me with a love of speculative fiction and folklore, respectively.

My wife, Raechel, inspired and encouraged me through every step of the writing process, and my partner-in-skulduggery Molly provided invaluable assistance with the novel’s various incarnations—without Raechel this project would never have gotten off the ground, and without Molly it might have exploded in a fireball rather than landing gently and safely, and a sight better than when it started. John, husband of Molly and so much more, helped maintain perspective as matters progressed, and offered the sagacity of a Buddha in all regards. Andrew Katkin and his father, Dan, both aided in ways they may never comprehend.

The coming recitation of names, of equal import to the catalog of ships in The Iliad, must wait a moment longer as I salute five fair folk who helped with this project and are therefore deserving of a heavy-handed metaphor and an awful pun. Trevor, you are my thumb, conqueror of all comers and gladiatorial judge. Caleb, you are the index finger that points the way to enlightenment. Pat, you are both defender and avenger of my honor, the middle digit. Selena, you are that penultimate finger without which hands are but paws. Jonathan, you are the pinky to be bitten when only the fanciest of giggles will suffice. To you five I say huzzah, and thank you.

Many others have inspired and encouraged me over the years, and while my mind is not what it once was, a handful of names float like cream to the top of my memory mug: Lauryn, Patrick, Jimmy, Becky, Daniel, Tracy, Don, Luke, Robbie, Willem, Joyce, Chad, Lara, Monique, Edgar, Greg, Carrie, Reinhardt, Barbara, Sean, Jeff, Rayford, Victor, Terry, Bobbie, Daylan, Nate, Mary, Allison, Kat, Stephanie, Bill, Angelo, Debbie, Paul, Eddie, Walt, Julie, Eric, Jen, Richard, Albert, Jon, Brenna, Ross, Meg, Ben, Shawn, Erica, Jeremy, Kido, Tom, Brooke, Sheri, Hunter, Ari, Jim, Twyla, Nick, J. T., Orrin, Clint, Music, Holly, Mike, Marlena, and Martin; Phil, Shirley and Olivia; the Zoltens; the Family and Brothers Johnson, the Mother and Brothers Capellari; the Maier-Katkins; the Katkins; the Maiers; the Browns; the Mastrofskis; the Greenbergs; the Reeses; the Lowells; the Jacobsons; the Flemings; the Reeves; the Rambalskis; the Schmidts; the Kenneys; the Hoovers, the Knudson; SAIL; the baristas of All Saints Café; the customers of Video 21; my website designer James Childress; and the memories of Alex and Jeff.

Then there are three standup fellows without whose humor and inspiration this novel would not be the work that it is. David, your beard is as spiritual as it is physical, and I quail before its majesty and the witty portal it gilds. Travis, never before have I encountered a tongue and brain in such harmony, each a razor of Occam’s and yet so often nice in more than the sharp meaning of the word. Jonathan, the pinky analogy stands now and forever. I am fortunate to know them, and you are ill-fated not to.

None of this touches on the countless writers, artists, musicians, filmmakers, game designers, actors, historical figures, and everyone else who inspires and inspired me, but such a list would be prohibitively lengthy. A single name that demands inclusion, however, is that of Istvan Orosz, whose art graces the cover of this very tome. Let me close by heartily praising those who are directly responsible for this book being held before your eyes: my peerless agent Sally Harding, as well