Hello. I am the Thomas Kinkade in your mind. I hope you are feeling cozy in your quaint thatched cottage with the mossy stone wall that runs alongside it set amid rolling patchwork hills. Behold the dappled trees and wild flowers in lush, colorful and resplendent bloom!
And yet it is also softly snowing! See how the dainty, glistening flakes tumble down to the pure white carpet in which your pretty cats gambol and prance.
It is magenta twilight. The sun illuminates fluffy clouds drifing peacefully across an azure sky. And the moon shepherds its flock of twinkling stars. A peach-faced child in a silken nightdress scans the night sky and waits for Santa Claus.
A beautiful golden fire shines forth from the latticed cottage window. Someone is roasting marshmellows. Who could it be? Well if it isn't lucky old you and your handsome family!
Meanwhile, torrents of human blood begins to pool in the locked room upstairs: drip, drip, drip through the creaking attic floorboards, staining the Persian rug in the room below. There has been a horrible murder.
Mad Jack the Hatchet Man lurks in the misty red woodshed with his gleaming cleaver. Your name mumbles across his quivering lips. His grip tightens on the evil weapon as he silently lifts the latch and begins to ...
... No. No wait! What's happening? This is all worng. The Thomas Kinkade in your mind is having one of its funny turns. Too much turkey dinner. I'm terribly sorry. This happens from time to time .... Move along please. Nothing to see here. Move along please. Nothing to see here ... yes, madam, it's just a Thomas Kinkade gone bad. I'm sure you'll read all about it in the tomorrow's newspaper. Move along please. Nothing to see here. Just a Thomas Kinkade gone bad. Move along please ... Happy Holidays.
