It is the year 1919 in New Orleans, and newborn jazz is rocking its own cradle down in the levees and bayous of Louisiana.

On Thursday, March 13th of the same year, the local paper, the Times Picayune, and the New Orleans Police Department both receive a letter.

The only return address provided is hell.

The salutation.

Esteemed mortal.

They have never caught me and they never will.

They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth.

I am not a human being, but a spirit and a demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orlinians and your foolish police call the Axe Man.

When I see fit, I shall come and claim other victims.

I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, be smeared with blood and brains of he who I have

set below to keep me company.

Undoubtedly, you Orlinians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am.

But I could be much worse if I wanted to.

If I wish I could pay a visit to your city every night,

at will I could slay thousands of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship with the

angel of death. Now, to be exact, at 1215 earthly time, on next Tuesday night,

I am going to pass over New Orleans.

In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a proposition to you people.

Here it is.

I am very fond of jazz music,

and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person

shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have just mentioned.

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