To whom it may concern

This week at Boneyard HQ, we asked Colin Broderick to contribute a few words.As most of you are surely aware, Colin is a Tyrone native who now resides in New Jersey.

With five books and two movies under his belt, he continues to tap away at his typewriter on a daily basis, constantly working on the next big thing he has up his sleeve. There is a lot in the pipeline this year from Colin, but more about that on a later date.

After reaching out to Broderick, we awaited his reply, which never came.

Instead, however, we received a letter from a bear named ‘Woodstock’…

The letter reads as follows.

To whom it may concern:

I would like it noted publicly that I did not give the writer Colin Broderick the rights to my life-story, as told in his latest sorry excuse for a book, ‘Woodstock Goes to Hollywood’.

Listen, I know I’m just a bear, but bears got rights, too… I think.

Actually – don’t quote me on that.

The first time I saw Broderick was five years ago.

He was living up in Woodstock back then, in a rambling old blue house in the woods.

I’d wandered on to his property one morning to rummage through his trash. (I’ll say this one small thing in his favor, that dude threw away some tasty, tasty leftovers).

Anyway, I’d just torn the door off his garden shed to get at the garbage cans when I noticed him in an upstairs window of his house.

It was a Tuesday, almost noon, and here’s this… this… interloper, sitting around in a repulsive blue cardigan… posing.

Yes. Posing, ladies and gentlemen.

Staring off out the window chewing on the end of a pencil like he’s thinking.

I say, ‘like he’s thinking’, because there’s no way, dear reader, that this sorry husk of a human is capable of actual thought.

It was quite obvious to me in that first instant that he was merely playing at being a writer.

Writer, my behind.

It’s an act.

An act, I tell you.

Scratching his ratty beard, staring pensively off into the woods like a damned imbecile.

Dear reader, I almost laughed.

In fact, it’s quite possible that I did emit a small chuckle just then, for he looked out the window; and, seeing me there on his lawn, he hurried out and stood (quite boldly, I might add, for such a scrawny little leprechaun), eyeing me with those beady little eyes of his.

And this is where I would like it noted, that, I believe, he hypnotised me into telling him my life story.

I don’t know how he did it; what ancient Celtic witchery he practiced just then.

But a spell was cast, dear reader, and I seemed to fall into some sort of deep trance.

And when I came to hours later, that filthy magpie of a man had transcribed everything I’d spoken into his dog-eared little notebook, and he was grinning like a goddamned rat in a cheese-factory.

Let this missive stand as a warning to other bears who may encounter this charlatan.

Do not… I repeat… do NOT trust this man with your secrets, unless you want to see them plastered on the side of midtown bus.

The man is a thief.

A thief I tell you. A second rate carnival barker with a brogue.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

He stole my story; plain and simple, and I object, with every fibre of my bear being.

I want it known publicly that I denounce his scurrilous representation of me as a simple country bear, and I am pursuing every legal avenue to have his novel, ‘Woodstock Goes to Hollywood’, pulled from publication…

Unless… well… unless, we can come to some sort of agreement.

See, I have this other story, one I didn’t tell you, Broderick, about a cross country trip I made from New York City to Los Angeles with a certain angry parrot named ‘Denzel’.

This particular story will blow your tiny reptilian brain to absolute pieces.

So, in closing, if you’re interested in avoiding being dragged through the courts for the next five years of your miserable life, call me…

Let’s make a deal.

Sincerely, Woodstock Le Bear ESQ.

‘Woodstock Goes To Hollywood’ by Colin Broderick, with illustrations from The Boneyard’s Chris Coll, is now available from ‘www.colinbroderick.com’, or ‘www.Amazon.co.uk’.