The writing on the wall

Gah! Vile perfidy! Here I rot in horrors, while my captors no doubt dine on figs in white wine, laughing a merry jig at my expense! I know. I know! I have sat in this piceous cell for days upon days upon days upon days upon days contemplating their smiles, their laughter, their mocking shouts.

I feel sick. Sick, yes, my skin crawling, sweat suffocating my pores, a garden of tiny crabs in my bowels all pinch, pinch, pinching. I feel sick. Perhaps I am. That’s what I’ll tell them. To bring them running! Yes, bring them running, and explain my cause. I will be polite, but firm. I will explain their mistake, offer my forgiveness, and apologise for my subterfuge. I do not belong here. I have done no wrong. They will see.

Better, superior idea! I will write my case down! The bastard men holding me here are not fools. They will be moved more by logic and bullet points than even the most passionate speech. An ordered essay detailing my situation shall make all clear, and I shall walk, and skip, and run from here in freedom most splendid. Now, where did I leave my Montblanc pen?



“Hey,” said Brian, tapping the monitor. “Call Dr. Hayden, looks like Mad Mick’s at it again.”

“At what?” asked Kurt, the newest member of the security staff. He looked over and wrinkled his nose. “Oh no, that’s disgusting…”