Chronicles of Nobody.

This is Leah, and I have managed to get a hold of your
email address. The great Nobody has willed it so!
*bows to Lord Nobody and worships in direction of Spain*

-Leah

______________

Ah, yes. It is certainly the inscrutable will of Nobody, the gramattically paradoxical*. Nobody, the only being in the Universe with any understanding of the phrase Consumer Electronics**, in his infinite wisdom and... something or other. By a strange coincidence, I'm in Spain at the moment, which is very inconvenient, because I have absolutely no grasp of the language and am only armed with a German-English Dictionary. My optimism remains intact, however, for I know that there is Nobody looking out for me***. I apologize for taking so long to answer this email. It was mainly due to the fact that I check my mail in an erratic fashion. I could go for weeks without even glancing at my inbox, or I could check it every couple of minutes, depending on my mood.

May the Blessing of Nobody be Upon You,

-Geofrey

*Note- such phrases as ,"Who's there?" and the response, "Nobody." According to logic, someone must have been there in order to say that Nobody was there to say it. This seems to be proven wrong by the answer, "Nobody..." For further arguments along these lines, which eventually lead to proofs of the existence of marketing non-gimmicks, honest lawyers, and other logical implausibilities, see life in general.

** I am currently of the opinion that this is a joint effort by the food industry and the computer industry, in an attempt to create edible computer parts. The wildly successful Ecobits were a product of this monumental effort. This product is, however, merely the begining of Consumer Electronics. Soon, there will be televisions that may be eaten once the warrantee wears off (the fact that there are no warantees on these products gives credibility to the skeptics, who believe that the entire idea was a load of what they prefer to call fecal matter)

*** Another grammatical paradox-

__________________

Wow! Coincidence happens that I am in Spain as well, and, thankfully, I have a slight understanding of Spanish, and I'd make an attempt to help you if Winslow hadn't lost the map. You have a map, right? Of course, it's not as if you'd be able to attempt to give it to us seeing as we have no idea where we are in the first place. --We may not even be in Spain at all, and actually in some remote Spanish speaking Island in the mid-Pacific. Damn that Winslow. Nobody, our great lord of all knowledge and understanding of the phrase, "Consumer Electronics" (Sadly, he seems to have no grasp on the term, "Ecobit", calling us liars and claiming that it is called no suchthing, thus, we have unsuccessfully been attempting to find another name for the formerly called, "Ecobits".) is the only thing keeping me from strangling the poor bastard and feeding him to the sharks swimming off the coast of this wretched remote Island/Spain.

Just remember that nobody is looking out for you, (Maybe he has a Spanish-English dictionary somewhere?) and that you are at least not a lost soul, --you have a map.

--Leah, secretary to the Great Prophet Winslow ("Great prophet", here is a phrase that can be used interchangeably with, "Dirty Bastard".)


_______________

Happy Thursday! (Quickly recites the Thursday prayer in the direction of Spain, or, in this case, the ground.) Fortunately, since my last Email, I have found a friend in Spain with an indirect understanding of English*. Unfortunately, my map was lost in the explosion**. There seem to be rather a lot of those here in Spain***.

As far as Winslow goes, I think you should just give him a good solid whack on the head while Nobody's not watching, if that's grammatically possible. If it's not, do it anyways. I never liked the English language, anyhoo.

I have a plan to get my map back, but it involves the use of several Army Divisions, exactly forty-two United States aircraft carriers with their entire complement of airplanes, and up to seven thousand strategic nuclear weapons. Osama has been working on the plan with me, but he seems to have a poor understanding of the mission's true goal. More on this as the situation develops (You see, we have to get the plan approved by the Pentagon.)

In the Name of Our Lord Nobody,
Geofrey
Prophet, Church of Nobody
Vice-god, Chuch of Crow and the Sooner-Night Saints

  *By indirect, I mean my new friend Osama is in posession of a Spanish-German Dictionary, which I can use with my English-German dictionary in order to translate anything he says in Spanish to German, and from German to English, and vice versa. This mode of communication, while difficult, is, nonetheless, the most efficient means I have. (On a bit of a side note, everything my new friend Osama says translates roughly into, "Get the Hell away from me you damned American." I get the feeling I'm missing something important.)

**It was Osama's idea. I'd rather not talk about it. Seriously.

***I get the feeling that I'm not in Spain in the first place, but somewhere else. It's just a feeling though. It may be nothing but the feeling of aimlessness caused by not being in the presence of Nobody for far too long.

_____________________________

Apparently, everything with Winslow has been cleared up. Moments after I sent that last email, a ship arrived, (HA! By Nobody, it was an island after all!) and Winslow was too busy seeking out the hallucination of the hooker he had seen, so he didn't notice. (Apparently, Winslow, being the illiterate fool he is, couldn't read the bag labeled, "FOOD for Nobody's Followers" (Another grammatical impossibility?) and didn't know that he could eat it. --I admit, it did look a tad like rocks, (Kinda tasted like them, too) and well, after a couple days without food, he began to lose his mind. I pity the poor bastard, still stuck on that island. Ah, well.

Supposedly, this island that we were on was actually in the center of a sea that happens to be off the coast of some Arabic county. A couple of Arabs attempted to communicate with me, --I think one of them was waving a Polish/Spanish dictionary around and shouting in some random obscure dialect. I remember there being this huge explosion, --and suddenly I find myself hit in the face with this map of Spain.  (There's some odd writing on the back that looks like a secret takeover plan of the U.S.) --Coincidence happens that I'm not even remotely near Spain at all. (I'm begging to come to the conclusion that our great lord Nobody has a slightly warped sense of humor.) At least Nobody is with me (and his sense of humor too, which I am hoping will go away sometime soon) and I now have a map of a place thousands of miles away.

--Leah
~[insert extensively long and fancy title here, seeing as she is too lazy to think of such a witty idea and type it out at the same time]

_________________________________

The good news is, I now know where I am. The bad news is
that where I am happens to be a maximum security prison somewhere in the vicinity of Nebraska.

You see, Osama and myself went to the Pentagon and  we
started presenting our plan to retrieve my map* to the Joint Chiefs. Everything started out very well, but took a turn for the worst as soon as we started talking. At first, they couldn't see the relevance to national security. After that, when  Osama started explaining the details of our strategic diversion**, they seemed to become quite disturbed. Once we described our intentions to use United States Airplanes as Kamikazes in the final stage of the plan, they threw us out rather forcefully. I even got a scratch on my elbow.

After throwing us out, they apparently decided that we were a threat to freedom or justice or something, so they decided to throw both of us into this prison. I had to sneak this computer into the prison by hiding it in my pocket.
They don't search you as thouroughly as you'd think when you go to prison. Osama brought in a television, a DVD player, several DVD's (including Farenheit 9/11), ten and one third tennis balls, and half of an M-16. He hid all of it in his shoes. No one suspected a thing.

Concerning Nobody's sense of humor, to say that it is merely warped is a nearly heretical understatement. In fact, to say that it is utterly bent is only slightly better. For as the prayer says, "Oh Great Nobody, whose sense of humor is ripped and mangled to such an extent that it resembles a piece of  paper that has been comsumed in an Unforgettable Fire." The prayer then goes on to beg for Nobody's help in putting out the aforementioned Unforgettable Fire.

I would offer to help Winslow get off of that island, but  I'm currently in prison***. Besides, he's probably in a better place now, as his visions of hookers would seem to suggest.

Geofrey,
Chairman of the Committee for Breaking Out of Prison

*In hindsight, I suppose I didn't really need the map anymore, being in Washington DC. The thought just slipped my mind and Osama was too busy swearing to be of much help.

**You see, in order to divert the map-theives from our true objective, we decided that it would be wise to mask our intentions by dropping nuclear weapons on Washington DC, New York, Los Angeles, and Medicine Hat (which I believe is somewhere in Canada).

***Although, Osama and my other friend, Adolf, are well on their way to getting us out. We plan on getting the guards drunk with the fifteen bottles of vodka that Adolf snuck in (hidden inside his shirt pocket) and then stealing their keys.


________________________________________

Well, this explains alot.

Sorry about not replying to this sooner, but i'm currently tied up in a vicious legal battle involving a box on doughnuts I stole while I was in Pakistan. Apparently, these doughnuts belonged to some type of vicious mafia leader also visiting the area, but luckily he knew my grandfather and shipped me back home. Unluckily, the moment I arrived, I was questioned on whether I had a permit to steal doughnuts in Pakistan. I claimed that I didn't even know there was a permit for that (Otherwise, I would have bought such a permit and relocated to Pakistan.) and then they suggested that I find a lawyer.

Instead, I took a correspondence course on law that took about 2.5 minutes, and ended up with a degree of law. I went on to argue for myself in the court over my lack of Pakistan-stealing-doughnut permit, --and I won, just to learn it was all a silly hoax and that I had appeared on a game show and won approx. 2  million dollars in prize money. After being given the $65 dollars left after the government had taken out the income tax, I went on and bought a last-minute-shopping gift for Christmas.

It just so happened that, right then, as I was about to buy the gift, two official-looking men with, "FBI" tagged on the front of their shirts dragged me off to questioning.

"Do you happen to know either of these men?" Then asked me once I was in some secluded area in the middle of nowhere. I was then handed a list of names.

"Hm... Osama Bin Laden... Adolf Hitler.... Geofery Crow.... Nope, never heard of them."

I was asked further questions. "Is it true that you were in the same graduating class as Mr. Crow at Pleasure Ridge Park High School in Louisville, Kentucky?"

"...I might have been, I don't know. Is there any chance that I could get a glass of water? I'm thirsy, --and this bright light shining into my eyes is annoying the hell out of me. Could you turn that off too?"

"No."

"Damn."

It goes on like that for a couple hours, until i'm let out of questioning. They tell me that I could go on home, but I appear to be in the middle of a desert in the middle of nowhere with a map of a county halfway across the world and no idea where I am.  I'm betting that the lawyers will show up any minute now.

They also told me that you had persisted in claiming that the entire "Takeover plan" wasn't actually a takeover plan at all, but was just a plan to earn back your lost map. That might explain why the bottom of my map of what appears to be Spain had come out of a sudden explosion in Pakistan, and why it has, "Property of Geofery Crow." scribbled at the bottom of it. Funny, i've never noticed it before.

As for getting out of jail, I suggest looking up, "How to pick a lock" and other variations of such on youtube.

--Leah Ellis, president of the "Help! I'm lost in the middle  of nowhere with a map of a country halfway across the world!" club.

_________________________________________________

After my last email, my life has rather taken a turn for the
worst. Actually, it wasn't really a turn for the worst, but more of an immensely quick change of direction for the slightly
more awful. Although there seems to be very little difference between these two statements, it is only an illusion caused by the fact that the two statements mean nearly exactly the same thing.

The prison escape worked perfectly on the second
attempt.

On our first try (December 24), we got both of the prison's
guards completely drunk. This would have been great, except,
instead of stealing their keys, the three of us each had two
bottles of vodka in celebration, and promptly passed out. On  our second attempt, (Yestersday) we got the two guards drunk and then proceeded to steal their keys.

That was about fourteen hours ago. Since then,
Adolf took
what was left of the vodka with him and left in a PT Cruiser
that he found by the highway with a dead body in it.
Myself  and Osama stole a Ford Model T that we found.

After
a few hours of driving (and seeing nothing worth mentioning aside from a pair of FBI agents interrogating a young woman by the side of the highway) we came to a small town with a population of sixteen people. The town's mayor (who also serves as the village idiot) told us that we should leave. We left after going to the local McDonald's (which was run by the preacher at the local church) and picking up some of their cookies. I told Osama that the cookies were the only thing at McDonald's that you could be sure were more than 10 percent  food.
   
After picking up a newspaper and reading all about the Pakistani Doughnut Theft Scandal, we went to the next town (which was apparently run by someone by the name of Richie Nixon. We were immediately employed by Richie in his plan to secretely steal money from the local bank, called the Pepsigate.

I have a bad feeling about all of this...
   
My advice about your being lost in the middle of nowhere problem is to give up hope. As soon as you give up hope,  something miraculous will happen and you will be rescued. But, as long as you believe that you could be rescued, there's  absolutely no chance.

-Geofrey
Mayor Nixon's Secretary of Pepsigate Theft

________________________________________________

  Over the past few days of crawling endlessly like a
thirsty man in a desert, I attempted to give up hope. Just when
I was about to give up hope about giving up hope and ever being
rescued, I discovered a Ford Model T in the middle of nowhere.            Strangely, the key was in the ignition, and everything was in
good order. --Except for the fact that my laptop was currently
out of batteries.

Taking this new car, I drove my way to the nearest McDonalds,
and ordered myself some Chicken Selects. Walking out to take my
food back to my car, I couldn't help but notice it had
disappeared completely out of the parking lot. Damn. Whenever I
find the bastards who stole my car, I'll have to... to... do
something extremely horrible to them. --And possibly warn them
of the rabid wolverine in the trunk.

As I walked around for a bit in the middle of nowhere again with
an empty box of Chicken Selects and a deep regret for having
left my compass in the passengers seat along with a paper that
had my name, address, social security number, credit card
numbers, embarrassing photographs, favorite type of cake, and
the information on what REALLY happened to Elvis.

Just a couple minutes ago, I has passed a sign saying, "AREA 51!
KEEP OUT!". Strangely enough, they had an electrical outlet in a
tree stump about 5 feet from the sign where I managed to plug in
my laptop and write this email. Oh, wait, --three guards dressed
in what looks like spacesuits are running towards me. I believe
I'll have to cut this email short.

Good luck with the Pepsigate Scandal.
  --Leah

_____________________________________________________

The Pepsigate Theft ended up a total disaster. It started out
very well, however. A new friend of mine by the name of Joey
Stalin helped Osama and me by picking the lock to the vault in
the Pepsigate. Unfortunately, after the three of us got into the
vault, we were attacked by a rabid wolverine. Apparently, our
screams were heard by someone, and we were caught in the act.
The town's only newspaper had a reporter there, and by noon the
story was all over town. We were thrown in prison yet again.
    
   Luckily, we were saved the trouble of escaping. That
night, Richie Nixon's government was overthrown by the local
Communist Party. At that point, Joey had the brilliant idea that
we should all join the Communist Party and say that the reason
we were stealing from the Pepsigate was in order to share all of
the money with the people of the town (by the way, the name of
the town was Moscow, Nebraska). As soon as we told them our
story, the leader of the Communists (a man named Mao) ordered us
to be released. We got out just in time to go to the celebration
of the success of the Revolution. There was a Communist Cake
there. The motto of the Communist Party, you recall, is,
"Everyone gets a slice of the Communist Cake."
  
  Later in the celebration, we started stomping on
Capitalist Cookies. Unfortunately, Osama ate one by mistake and
was immediately charged with treason and sent to the electric
chair, poor bastard.
   
  At his funeral, I gave the eulogy, since I was the one
who knew him best. I told all of the people that he was a
dangerous Capitalist and that it was people like him who gave
America a bad name. After the funeral, he was buried, and the
national anthem of Moscow (Mysterious Ways by U2- absolutely
nothing to do with Communism, but a good song, nonetheless) was
played.   
   We then elected the leaders of Moscow. Mao was elected
President, I was elected Chief Judge, and Joey was elected Chief
of Police. As his first act in office, Mao had everyone who
didn't vote for him charged with subversiveness. I found them
guilty, and then Joey had them killed. There's nothing like a
democratic process, is there?
    
   I hope that everything with the spacesuited individuals
goes well, although I'm not optimistic.
    
   -Geofrey
  Chief Judge of the Sovereign City of Moscow, Nebraska

_________________________________________________________


Well, i'm glad to hear of your election. As for me, things have taken a turn for the worse, or slightly less good.

It started off with the spacesuited individuals attempting to shoot me.. According to them, it involved some bizarre case of national security and something about, "Unauthorized entry". I however, am of the firm belief that they just wanted to know what time it was, and were jealous of the capabilities of my far superior digital watch.

Fortunately, this was the point that I got tired of writing the particular paragraph above, and decided to begin a new one that began with myself in some safe, secluded spot in somewhere moderately safe-looking in the middle of Nebraska.

Thus, somehow, I've managed to somehow keep myself alive (Also safe)  with my digital watch still intact.

Hope things run smoothly with the Communist party. --And i'm sorry to hear about that dirty scum of a capitalist, Osama. I hope his corpse rots forever in the 42nd level of hell, and that our great lord Nobody gives him sufficient punishment.

--Leah

(Oh, and is it just me, or did I see you at Meijers at about 3:45 on Saturday?)

__________________________________________________


Honestly, I thought every place in Nebraska was at least moderately safe. That was, of course, before I went there myself.

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I have been fired from my dream job as the Chief Judge of the Sovereign City of Moscow. It all started when Mao (who has decided to call himself Chairman Mao, rather than President) decided that all things of an anti-communist nature were to be confiscated and burned, along with their owners. Unfortunately, at the time he decided this I was sitting quietly in the corner of the room reading a copy of Doctor Zhivago. The dialouge that followed went something like this:

"Is that a copy of Doctor Zhivago that you're reading?"

"Oh, shit."

I was promptly arrested and my book was burned. I was saved from burning by the fact that I was the Chief Judge. I decided that I had served Moscow faithfully ever since the revolution, so  I let myself off easy. I exiled myself from Moscow.

The next day I drove off in my Ford Model T, just me and my rabid wolverine. By then it was more of a dead wolverine, but it was still good company, apart from the smell. It smelled rather like a dead wolverine, which is not good. Before long I decided that the smell was too horrible for me to put up with, so I got out of the car and began to walk. After a few hours (and a long string of curses, mostly on the memory of Karl Marx) I saw a car in the distance. It was painted black, with black windows. I still can't figure out how they saw through thosw windows. Anyhoo, the entire FBI got out of the car, and a rather sinister-looking person with a cigar that made me feel inadequate pulled out a gun that made me feel even more inadequate and said, "Shut up."

The fact that struck me was that I hadn't said anything, but I decided that pointing that out would significantly shorten my life span, so I shut up.

The figure took a puff of the cigar, as if to appear intimidating. It worked. They then said, " I need you to answer a few questions for me."

I wasn't sure if I was supposed to speak or not, so I decided that a slight nod would be a good idea. I nodded and was promptly told to shut up.

The figure then said, "I'm looking for a young woman who mysteriously escaped from... a secret military base. I'm here to ask you if you can tell us where she is."

"A secret military base?" I asked.

"SHUT UP! IT'S A SECRET!"

I didn't know what to say, so I just said, "Right."

The figure took several puffs on his cigar and blew up a passing semi truck to add emphasis to his words, "Can you tell us where she is?"

"Who? Or whom? I always get those two mixed up."

"THE PERSON WE'RE LOOkING FOR, YOU STUPID... er... SOMETHING!!!"

"I don't know who you're talking about."

"Why not?"

"You didn't give me a name."

"I thought you'd know you're own name."

"No, I mean the name of the person you're looking for."

"I CAN'T TELL YOU THE NAME OF THE PERSON WE'RE LOOKING FOR!!!"

"Why not?"

"Because we're the government. We don't answer questions, we only ask them."

"How can I help you if I don't know the name of who you're looking for?"

"I'M ASKING THE QUESTIONS HERE!!!!"

This went on for several hours, until the figure decided that I wasn't getting them anywhere. The FBI drove off in the car, and I was left alone, just me and a burning wreck of a semi truck. I decided that I should look through the wreckage and see if there was anything I could use. I found my map of Spain/Pakistan (Spainistan?) in the wreckage.

I've searched through my memory thoroughly and have discovered that I was, in fact, at Meijers at about 3:45 on Saturday. After being interrogated by the FBI, I decided to walk back home and I was stopping at Meijers to get various supplies.

Good luck in Nebraska.

-Geofrey

______________________________

Well, in fact, at this very time, I am currently stowed away in the trunk of a Ford Model T that looks strangely like the one that I had previously had stolen.Actually, moments after I arrived there, I had discovered that Nebraska was indeed not safe, unlike the safe-looking cheese that I had picked up at Meijers on Saturday. Turned out that the "Basement" was more like a gas chamber. I couldn't help but notice the littered corpses of various Nebraskans, along with the red paint on the walls which read, "CAPITALIST SCUM!" and, "DIE DIE DIE DIE" and many variations and combinations of the above. I managed to notice that most everything within eyesight was either on fire or holding a flamethrower. Taking this into consideration, I jumped into the trunk of the nearest thing that wasn't in flames, which happened to be this particular car.

After a few minutes of waiting, the car seemed to start up and head off in some unknown direction. (Hopefully away from Nebraska) Within moments, I discovered what exactly dead wolverine smelled like. Not exactly a scent i'd like to put in an air freshener...
Well, having stowed away in this paticular car, I couldn't help but notice the sudden stop. I also couldn't help but notice the violin case that was thrown on top of me from the stop, making my discomfort even worse. Also quite discomforting was the severed head discovered in this violin case, not actually a violin at all. A sticky note taped to the forehead of the head read, "Keep Refrigerated. Good until February 30th."
After awhile the car stopped, and shouting outside began. This gave me a tremendous headache, and, pushing past the men dressed in black suits holding cigars yelling at somebody currently out of my line of vision, I headed for the nearest supermarket to hopefully find some headache medicine. Thankfully, I managed to find some Communist cake on sale, as well as a mini-fridge.
Taking the mini-fridge that I had bought, I stuck back past the men in black suits, and stuck the severed head in the fridge like the sticky note had said. Who am I to defy the scheme of things?

As to take the highly cliched line, "We're not in Nebraska anymore."

Hope that all goes well with the FBI. If you see them again, make sure to tell them that I hope they have good luck finding whomever they're trying to capture.

-Leah

_______________________

Unfortunately, shortly after I got home from my trek to Nebraska, Washington, Spain (and/ or the Middle East), The Sovereign City of Moscow, and the great land of Meijers, I was greeted by a group of middle-aged men in black suits. I was so shocked at the sight of them that I dropped the coffee mug that I was holding in my left hand (fortunately, the one in my right hand was safe). I immediately gulped down the rest of my coffee and jumped out of the living room window, because I didn't realize that the door was much closer, and also much more convenient.

As soon as I got out of the window, I was confronted by a group of middle-aged men in lime-green suits. They quickly picked me up and stuffed me into the trunk of their car, which was a few miles away. They began to drive off, but stopped and took me out of the trunk and stuffed me into the passenger's seat of the car (which, by the way, was a lovely shade of grey called "Revolting Sludge Grey." The name scarcely does it justice.).

I tried to take a sip from my empty mug, and asked the men who they were.

An individual in the back seat, who was wearing a suit that was the most disgusting shade of lime green that I've ever seen, answered, "We are part of an international syndicate of mortician's who are attempting to bring down the FBI in order to benefit ourselves."

This made so much sense that they had to explain it to me.

"You see," one of them began, "It goes like this: If there is no FBI, then more people will be murdered. Now, murder is good business for morticians, because, according to the laws of supply and demand, we will be in more demand, and will make vast amounts of money."

The macabre logic of this line of thought astounded me. Unfortunately, circumstances beyond my control force me to cut this email short.

-Geofrey
Confused and in a Car

_________
Well, as it seems, I am currently locked away in a jail cell within the base of these mysterious morticians that you speak of. I suppose an explaination is nessisary.

After the car that I was in previously drove off for the second time, I came to a horrible realization. It goes along the lines of, "Oh, shit. It's the FBI driving this car, isn't it?"

Jumping out of the trunk in a scrambled fury, I suppose they saw me. All 25 of them jumped out of the car at once, (How they managed to fit in there is completely beyond me.) and began to shoot at me with their intimidating guns. This is the point where I realized that it was likely much safer inside the trunk than outside it, and that things would be running smoothly if I had only stayed safely silent inside the trunk.

Fortunately, the morticians came to save me, clad in their lime green suits. Well, they didn't exactly some out and start shooting down the FBI members with machine guns (Later on, I figured out that they would have if the shipment had come in 3 days earlier.) but instead impersonated the boss of the FBI and telling them that I was actually a rare species of Monkey, and that if they shot at me then they would shortly be overrun by members of PETA. Again, I'm not sure whether to be flattered over being saved, or insulted.

Shortly after, the men in lime green suits shoved me into their limousine parked a couple miles away, and I sat next to a familiar looking young man who was typing something furiously on his laptop, as if sending a frantic email to someone. Before I could place where exactly I had seen him, I spotted the Revolting Sludge Grey seats, and immediately fainted from the look of such.

I wake up, and find myself in a dingy old cell in what appears to be a basement. I sit up, and the first thing I noticed was the particular shade of lime green of the suit that the guard was wearing, (The name may have been, "Horrid Lime Green".) and immediately fainted again.

Having awoken for the second time, having enough mind to keep my eyes off the guard, I figured that I might as well check my email.

"No!" Protested the guard, claiming that his boass would have his head if he let me have any connection to the outside world. Having convinced him through a series of debates that the outside world did, in fact, not exist due to the fact that the entire universe is just a figment of his imagination, and that none of this really exists or is happenings, he let me on my laptop, just as long as the boss didn't see.

Well, I hope that your luck with them turns out better than mine did.

-Leah,
Current Prisoner of the Morticians Intelligence Agency.

_________________________

As soon as the morticians told me their story, one of them got a call on his carphone (I didn't know those still existed) saying that the FBI was attempting to smuggle an extremely rare monkey across the Nebraska-Mexico border.

"Those bastards!" their leader, a man named Clive, said to his second-in-command, "We've got to stop them!"

"Why?" asked the second-in-command, a man named Clive.

Clive stopped to think before saying, "Because they are openly defying geography. It's not natural! We've got to stop them, and after we've stopped them, we'll take out their guts and smash them into a fine paste, and we'll take that paste and use it as bait when we go fishing! Because I HATE THOSE BASTARDS!!"

They all considered this sufficient reason to risk death and other unpleasantness. When we got within sight of the FBI and their Ford Model T, the car was searched for usable weapons.

"I have a few plastic forks," one of them said.

"Fine," said Clive, " those will be our weapons of Justice. Now, Clive, you go out there with Clive, Clive, Clive, Clive, and Clive, and I will go out there with Clive, Clive, Clive, Clive, Clive, Clive, Ferdinand, and Reggie."

They soon cleared out the vehicle, except for me. Unfortunately, I can't tell you what happened there, because the windows were peril sensitive, and I was unable to see any of it. All I do know is that we managed to get the monkey. It seemed moderately familiar.

As soon as we got to the morticians' base, Clive told me to go away, because I reminded him of his mother. Now, what that is supposed to mean, I don't know, but I left their base and just started walking. I've been doing a lot of that lately.

I started wondering why anyone would want to go through all of the trouble of searching the known Multiverse, if they were just going to go and destroy it shortly after. I don't have time to wonder about things like that anymore, because there's a black car driving towards me from out in the distance.

-Geofrey
Hiding Behind a Small Bush/Shrub