Is this a Cry for Help?

 

The other day I made the acquaintance of a baby in a costume on the front steps of a zoo by any other name. In the time that remained, I made it my business to train a wandering hostess in the arts of subliminal induction. She gave off the redolent odor of gratelessness but I forged ahead nonetheless. In the back of our straw chassis, we customarily carried two out of three carved switches. Each one linked us to a Great Continent. I would fold all my pictures in a way which gave everyone an idea about which conflict would suit them best. By the time we were through, no one felt that they'd received a fair shot at a brighter tomorrow. I knew for a fact, though, that if I followed through on my original buildup, I wouldn't have to go looking under an abandoned pier for a missing widower wearing a drop-dead kimono with an attitude to match. In fact, only a wisenheimer of the first rank would ever consider basking in the approval of those with limited horizontal cognition.

The next time you're in town, if you meet a guy with hazel eyes who speaks with a notably Scottish brogue, could you please ask him where he was on the evening of the 19th at about 2:71 AM Mountain Pacific Time? It's a widely shared opinion around these parts that he might be more forthcoming to the wiles of a traumatized stranger. If, though, he should suddenly lightly touch your wrist (right or left, it makes no difference) and then make a remark about your surprising resemblance to a pariah he once encountered while stacking coal, then it might be best if you move back in with your parents and pick up where you left off all those years ago. I'll be waiting by a bridge in an Oxnard blue sedan. My hair will be thoroughly conditioned, and I'll be carrying a copy of Lord Newton's Oriental Bible in case things get sticky. You can share in whatever I bring back during the next minute or so. If not, there's a place down by the water where they take bonified nutrition very seriously. This has always been a very important part of the overall picture.

In all likelihood, the game will be extended—past sunrise if necessary. I'll see to it that you won't get left behind like the last time. All the bars in my sundrome are rigged to emit lightning-fast accountancies and, even now, each one seems to be pinned to the very moment when you're expected to regain consciousness. If not, then one of my brothers may cast a line on your behalf in the search for a crestfallen debutante. One of these nights, I expect that we'll find your direct lookalike aligned with a malignant equestrian trend. You shouldn't take it to heart, though. Because, if all the playacting has proved anything at all, it's that one of your best chances for redemption is to leak some crucial details in an effort to establish your adamantine credibility with all the naysaying crybabies once and for all. In the interim. would it be okay if we put you down for next Tuesday the 23rd at six? That's the only time we'll be in the office for the next three or four months and we wouldn't want to miss out on a chance to see you take on a person of your own size for, like, the first time ever.

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