Being the Account of an Event Which Should Put Most Persons at Ease.

The sky blue suede Norlorky was placed with distant relatives in a mis-identified time zone while the staff and I struggled to free up the space required without upsetting Monday's planned false flag psychological operation ('psy-op'). That Summer I had worn my special tweed bindings and my niece Dwelebra donned her favourite (now forbidden) vole-fur lined surgical mask for what seemed like hours (in reality days made of seconds) as we waited for an appearance on the raised screen, iced coffee in hand, of the Final Key. There was a general bonhomie and a remarkable lack of piffle, which helped ingratiate the Team with an ignoble lumber executive accused of first degree espanticide by the Government of Puerto Vallarta, Virginia.

It seemed only minutes before the cold, hard truth of ontological granularity produced in us the now quite common sensation of mild abdominal upset. With visions of future paydays on the Moon now just so many ablated dust-ponies, it fell to me to break the news of the Team's abandonment, even while seated on specially constructed ergonomic prick cushions. It took all I had but I got through it without bursting and felt myself to be the better man for it. The salient point however is that I WASN'T for it. In fact I was actively fighting against it, just as I had every day for the previous thirty-three and seven ninths months. Look, I hope that one day when someone reads these off-the-cuff jottings, it's clear that I've sought to clear my name in all but 'name' only, from one end of this so-called 'country' to the other and had what can only be described as a rough go of it even as I reaped a windfall formerly unheard of in sententious betrayals of this kind.

In the event of my premature suffocation at the hands of a shadowy cabal of midnight Child Prosecutors, my only wish, in these troubled times, is to feed a bank of Formica Felony Desks into the furious flames which even now nip at the heels of the majority of superlatively mediocre roof closet maintenance contractors, their staff and support crew et al, who just show up, day in and day out, approach a hand that never bites, escort a coterie of pre-teen knitting assistants into Court, and just DO THE THING, okay? Could I be any clearer or is this just one more way for me to eat my own brain without even trying, so to speak? 

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