I am Mort the Dead Author. I’ve come to you from your dreams! I will be your guide. I am the muse of the macabre, I’ll bring to light and then make light of your deepest darkest fears! Together, we laugh at them, you and your corpse court-jester. See you on the Other Side...

One nonviolent novelist, pushed to his limit, decides to play dead for attention. He has failed to write a novel. He becomes a novel instead: The Great American Novel. Is Mort not a Great American himself—this whimsical writer who dons a macabre mask, white paint and a pinstripe suit? No, Mort is a liar, a cheat, and a thief. Perhaps he has done nothing to earn our respect, but laugh at himself when all was said and done. He’s gone in search of America and found its many leaves of poetry in cafés, bars, gas stations, hotels, diners, bedrooms, and brothels. Looking for novel ideas, he has become someone America needs to dream of new frontiers—if only those existing in the imagination. Are these tales the ravings of a poet or a madman? What was his muse? What substance was his influence? What were his vices—will you ever know? What gave the strange visions which spilled from the black milk of the dead author’s desk inkwell? The answer is simple: It was only the stuff of dreams.

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