When I was young, I was walking down an alley with my parents, after a particularly dismal US Closed Championship. My elderly father, an accomplished chess player tutored by Nimzovitch, was suddenly accosted by a shadowy figure, who moved in the manner of the later Alekhine. After a scuffle, my parents were both clubbed to death with a give-away Saitek computer chess set, the kind handed out for the USCF limerick contest. I was left shattered, weeping, a lad with no apparent chess future. Thus I spent my youth and young manhood training myself for all manner of chess combat. I studied the "science" of Botvinnik. I labored over obscure games by Smyslov, Steinitz, and Torre. I duly prepared myself for a life of fighting chess crime. Or at least chess forum stupidity. But I needed a name, a disguise. Something that would strike fear in the heart of ethically-challenged USCF policy board members. And one night, while cozying up to a fire reading Fischer's "I was a Prisoner in a Pasadena Jailhouse," a bishop flew in through the window. "That's it!" I cried. "A Bishop! Surely the pontifical piece, a staunch symbol of morality and rectitude, could send fear into the dark hearts of drawmasters everywhere!" So I donned my mask, built my chesscave, and here I am.-- The Masked Bishop