"Missing" from Fallen Host
"Missing" from Apocalypse Array (in .PDF format)
skip to the latest enstallment: MISSING MOUSE CHAPTER #7 from the forthcoming Apocalypse Array.
March 7, 2079
I thought Iíd add myself to the list of men you put away who send you letters from prison. Oh, wait, Dannyís dead. Hmmm, maybe Iím just a pinch hitter then.
The trial went well didnít you think? It was long and drawn out, but, well, Iím here now. Itís what you wanted, right? Too bad they couldnít pin murder on me, but, well, I think you should be happy with the life-sentence.
And, in case you were worried, things are simply lovely here. Time has only been kind to Sing-Sing. They have a very progressive religious community of Muslims. Reading the History of Malcolm X to catch-up. Yet somehow, I donít think thatís going to be quite enough to completely ingratiate myself with the boyz in the crew. Something about being a "towel head" I didnít quite catch before I got hauled into solitary for bad behavior.
And, speaking of Malcolm X, who says incarceration doesnít have its perks? I mean, here I am learning to read English. Because of my "special situation" the guards have provided me with printeds of the books I want to read. So, no hand-helds with a nice, convenient built-in translation program. And, Iíve already read the one copy of the Koran they had here in Arabic about sixteen times. Merciful Allah, but that book is weird. Iíd forgotten how poetic and repetitive it is. Makes my head hurt. Although, Iíve been having really kicking dreams about djinni.
Oh, and be impressed. This letter is actually being handwritten. They wonít even give me the recording program they give every other prisoner. Itís like they expect me to mcgyver some kind of space age transporter system out of a couple of transistors and some snot. Yeah, thatís likely.
And what a great rep to have! I mean, all the boyz are totally impressed that Iím a tech-head. That gives me so much street cred. Yeah, I tell you, nobody wants to mess with a pretty, little, five foot three programmer in for tech-crimes. I hardly ever get called wussy-boy.
Itís lovely here, just lovely.
Well, thatís all for now. My hand is staring to cramp up.
March 14, 2079
Greetings from Sing-Sing! Iíd send you a postcard but they donít seem to have any pictures of our lovely accommodations in the prison gift shoppe. Shame, really. I think theyíd be a hit.
After a small incident in the lunchroom, Iíve been able to convince the staff here that Iím an info-junkie. So, theyíve graciously allowed me access to printeds of the major newsfeeds. I have to say Iím surprised at you, Dee. Underground? Alleged connections to Hassidic terrorists? Rumors of an out-of-wedlock pregnancy? Iím shocked I tell you, just shocked! Keep up this kind of behavior and youíre going to end up my roomie. Oh wait, weíre not co-ed. Darn. Well, it was a pleasant thought.
But, frankly, Iím kind of hurt. I always thought I was the only man in your life. I mean, we share underwear intel. I thought that meant something. No other woman knows about my plaid boxers. Now, I find out some other man might be aware of your white, size six, binki cuts? Hurt, Iím telling you, cut right to the quick.
The other bummer is, of course, being on the run as you are, youíre probably not getting my carefully printed mail. That kind of robs me of the tiny bit of pleasure I was having writing these sarcastic little notes to you. I might have to try to send word to friends. Maybe they can boost these from your box and post them somewhere on the LINK. I mean, I just canít stand the thought that youíre not listening.
Oh, and Iíve clipped the articles about you. Since Iím being discouraged from making a scrapbook out of themóI mean whatever! Itís creative, youíd think that would help with my rehabilitation--Iím going to send them to you. You could construct something nice. Get one of those leather bound things or something.
Well, time for breakfast. See you. Oops, forgot about that whole life-sentence thing, so I mean, Iíll be writing later.