So now that I'm at Hip Displeasure, Bob says I'm not really allowed to type anything over a paragraph for Obner. In fact Bob says, I'm not really allowed to do anything at all.

For a start he makes me live in a small pine box, locked with a padlock. Once every few days he unlocks the box and escorts me, proding me in the back with his Karabiner 98k rifle while yelling "right, left, 90 degree turn NOW!" which is quite nice of him since I'm blindfolded and can't really see where I'm going.

The directions led to a dingy, dark, stone walled room decorated with totenkopfs and pictures of the Dallas Cowboys changing room taken through a telephoto lens. There's a PC in there and I am encouraged to write for the blog while he blasts out Wagner symphonies and takes pot shots at a blown up press photo of Adlai Stevenson.

One strange thing about the PC is that the H, E, L, P, and exclamation mark keys have been all prised off the keyboard, the reason for which I can't explain but when he's aimming at Adlai (and not looking at what I'm doing) I just use the on screen keyboard that's in the Accessories menu.

A couple of interesting things I've noticed about Bob is when not in public he wears an eye patch and has a shrapnel wound across his face that, presumably, he hides when visiting on the outside world with heavy make-up.

After about 20 minutes it's back to the box.

Still, you can't complain to much. If you think about it there's much worse places to be than locked in a box. Bob has even cut out a little 'letter box' in the side so I can peer out at heavy set ankles pondering by every so often and which, more importantly, he can post rashers of bacon and dry crackers through at dinner time. I'm not so keen on the crackers but I love the bacon.

Bye,

Darrin.

We're working on a team to break you out. Hang in there it may be awhile.









Current Reads:
How To Free Family and Friends From Their Cult Captors
Debugging the Human Mind
Ham Radio How To
---/.../---

We should recruit aFreshStart4me.

You get a box?

Luckeee.

Ask Bob if you can have the time to finish your mix review.

It's half done, unfortunately I burned myself out at the mid point of what can only be described as a meister work and haven't had the inspiration to go back to it.

However, your amateur pestering may be just the thing to get me back to work.

Here's proof of it's existance. I'll try and bring it in under 3,000 words.

golly, i sure wish i had a frew disc to review...

You not got it yet? That's slightly worrying because I sent it on the 11th.

Hopefully you get it soon. It has a return address on it and I've not had it back...

What's the return address of a box in Bob's compound?

Box D, Bob's Compound, Texas.

Maybe Bob, can't get your mail*** through your bacon slot.* And he's just pitching it.**

* - I meant nothing sexual by that.
** - I meant nothing sexual by that either.
*** - I almost wanted to go back and change the spelling to male.

Who'da thunk a tease for a 5 page hate-note to a Radcliffe mix would actually look so entertaining? I say don't limit yourself. If you can make a novel out of this thing then go for it.

btw - for a little perspective, in the time since you received that mix I've completed 2 feature-length screenplays, one 20 page treatment for another screenplay, an outline for a feature adaptation of a short story, a proposal for a documentary tv series, and the subsequently network-funded bible for that same doc series (including a sample episode and plans for 12 more).

You, on the other hand, have gone on an aborted hike through some damp lichen.

To be fair, I did also have to write papers for Archaeology, Philosophy and Classics and study for/sit four exams.

Fair? Yeh. I guess I could be fair.

GET BACK IN YER BOX, FREW!!!

Bob's going to put me in a box soon if I don't pick up the pace...

When my youngest son was still a wee toddler, we referred to his version of this affliction as "cankles," because you couldn't tell where the calves ended and the ankles began.

You mean you've been out of your box all this time and STILL haven't increased your output?!?!?!?

I was searching for red silk to line my box with...

The Deathray Davies - "They Stuck Me In A Box In The Ground". A song that shows up on all of their albums in a different "Part". Write me some reviews of those songs and how they relate to the situation that you're now in. Drop the Radcliffe stuff (now that you've got him excited), and get on this immediately. *removes costume cankle rubber*

You know, whenever I hear or say the word 'panties' I always picture myself amongst piles of them squealing "panties, panties, panties!".

Is that odd?

You know the drill...

PSTPIXPLSKTHX

I picture a girl taking them off, then flinging them at me with her foot.