Ah, the relationship between an artist and a critic...

Dear Mr Trussington Howell-Foxforthy,

Thank you for returning my manuscript and your enclosed nasty niminy-piminy little note. I am afraid your letter is most unsuitable for me at the present time as I've just spent the entire weekend writing the novel that you have summarily rejected. I can only assume that it is company policy to reject all manuscripts not submitted in 10-ft high Braille. And yes, I am aware, that it is traditionally bad form to respond to any kind of criticism or rejection. But in this, as with all else, I am an innovator. Therefore I may freely address you as pissmidget.

Still, there is time for you to change your views, and I think you will when we meet. And meet we most assuredly will, when I suck out your eyes and use them as stoppers for my ears to muffle the screams you'll make as I headbutt you into a fine paste. I do hope you will not be disheartened by your sudden, violent death.

Yours Faithfully, Bernard Black

 Everyone... Everyone agreed he was right to kill the publisher. And to do it with a flugelhorn was a stroke of genius. "Bernard!" they said. No, Brendan, Brendan, "Brendan" they said. "Congratulations! Here, have this basket of stuff and come and stay for the weekend!"