This will be my first and last communication about leaf bags.

What I am about to share is 100% legal. I am completely within my rights in doing what I am doing. And there is no way to stop me or identify me. I dare, even encourage you to try.

If you need to call me anything, call me the Unabagger.

Every year, in my small, unnamed eastern North American suburb and thousands like it, the trees begin shedding their leaves anywhere from the third week of September to mid-October for at least six weeks. It’s only been happening for 2000 years. You’d think people would have caught on by now.

No. No, they haven’t. Instead, they wait until the late fall, until they are literally wading in mountains of wet, heavy leaves, to finally deduce that they need leaf bags.

You pathetic, clueless, sickening knobheads. Sluggishly grazing through life like farm animals while leaves by the millions bury you and slicken the streets we are forced to share. You deserve what you have coming to you. And what you have coming to you, is me.

You see, unlike most of you, I don’t buy leaf bags in the fall. Or even in September or August. I buy them  every single week of the year, all year long. If an order comes in anywhere, I am there. Do not ask how. And I don’t buy a pack or two at a time. I buy them all.

Let me repeat this slowly and clearly, since, if you are among the mindless lumps who wait until the last minute to buy leaf bags, you probably need things spelled out over and over:

I. Buy. Every. Single. Leaf. Bag. Near. Me.

All of them from Home Depot. All of them from Walmart, and Costco, and other large retailers I will not identify, since they may be location-centric and help to identify me. And I will not share how I do this or where I store them or how much it costs me. Let’s just say that my network, system and resources are far too large and sophisticated for ratbags like you to appreciate.

Why do I do this? Total, unique, rapturous pleasure. And to teach you tree stumps a lesson.

Once I have decimated the shelves in my region and the leaves are at maximum descent, I will enter a retailer like the ones above, unassumingly walk into the seasonal department, then pretend to be looking at rakes, or even searching for leaf bags myself. The satisfaction of seeing the completely bag-less shelves, singlehandedly thanks to my honest, diligent work, is something your mealworm-sized brains could not fathom.

It doesn’t take long to meet a victim. I can smell the moldy desperation from the parking lot. They come in harried and confused. My favorite is the sweaty, panicked genius that has been raking for hours and suddenly realizes, as dusk approaches, that they need something to put all those leaves into. Imagine that. I typically start up a conversation, often with a gentle smile, which I must admit takes a superhuman effort, since at that point I am usually shaking from a near-overwhelming mix of volcanic revulsion and dizzying ecstasy.

“Don’t tell me,” I’ll say good-naturedly, like a friendly TV-commercial neighbor. “Leaf bags.” Their head shakes. They stare at me open-mouthed. A goldfish has more dignity. “I’ve been to three different places,” they’ll blubber. “They’re all out. I don’t get it.” Of course you don’t get it. You’ve only lived through 55 fall seasons. It’s a total surprise every year. Sometimes, if they are particularly vile, I will misdirect them to a retailer many miles away. “I heard they have tons over there,” I’ll offer, in my helpful, trusty way. In two seconds I could grab a nearby shovel and sever their tracheas. I’d be doing them a favor. But I merely smile again and leave.

On leaf collection day, my own bags stand tall and full and ready for duty like an elite military battalion, five soldiers deep. You could eat off my lawn.

As I declared earlier, this will be my only communication about this, ever. Maybe you will pay attention, or even be grateful, as would any decent person. I doubt it. But I don’t need your thanks, and I will not stop. I am also very mobile and extremely well-resourced, and can change my target area effortlessly. In fact, I quite enjoy pillaging new neighborhoods. I am to leaf bags what locusts are to crops, and I ride the wind to wherever I choose with the same ease.

And one last thing: I am seriously thinking of expanding my efforts to road salt. Consider yourselves warned. 

*** You can buy The Unabagger’s stunning, hilariously fantastic new book, Temporary Libraries here.