Weasels Ripped My Flesh


Who said don't look back? Don't believe 'em.


I hadn't heard from Lynn in seven years, then out of the blue I get

an email. Really laying it on, too. "Talking with you, reading your

books, and hearing your perspective on how things work in the world,

made a real difference in how I see things today." She asked if I

was surprised to hear from her after all that time. It took a while

for me to answer, because truthfully I didn't how to tell her that

if she's still working in that job, I didn't make enough difference.


I had succeeded in putting as much distance as possible between me

and that old job - in attitude, image, and attire at least. I can

still see the physical changes, the toll that the job took on me,

every time I look in a mirror. Literally. The only time I ever

talk about that time is when remembering how painfully stressed out

and unhappy I was. I use the damage inflicted on me when Witlessing

in my Mini-Steer-ial Service, making at least some use out of the

poor decisions of my past:


YEA, tho that job may seem a NECESSARY EVIL, do not pretend that it

is not a VOLUNTARY EVIL - and do not pretend that the consequences

of drudging off day after day are limited to the steady loss of your

SOUL. NAY, for you who trade these bits of your soul for the money

to buy the garbage foisted on you by the CONspiracy, the goods that

THEY want you to think you NEED, you who think, "Well, I'll put up

with this shit for a little longer, but once I get the car paid off

I'll start looking for a better job", I say to you that YOU are the

strong ones. That's right, YOU are the ones who I PRAISE, because

you are the ones who have the measure of honesty and the depth of

spirit to at least RECOGNIZE that what you do with your lives, what

you were programmed to do, is EVIL, pure and clear. YOU, who

have said, "I can TAKE THE PAIN", YOU are the ones willing to

SACRIFICE YOUR SOUL to the IDEA, Yea, that GREAT IDEA, to build

that house with it's white picket fence, to buy that Porsche,

to raise those kids and be a good provider, or to start that Punk

band and print that Zine, it matters not, for it really really WAS a

GREAT IDEA. And you fell for the CONspiracy's lie that all it takes

in this world to reach your dreams is to sell just a LITTLE BIT of

your SOUL. Yes, I can see those heads nodding in agreement, I can

relate to the ones who HATE their JOBS but are willing to PUT UP

WITH THE SHIT for the MONEY they pay, because I too have

my eyes a little TOO OPEN to pretend that THAT is not what it

takes. I too was blessed with that EXTRA SPARK that the mindless,

soulless CATTLE you share this planet with did not find important

enough to stand in line for when such things were handed out, too

impatient to get down to this earth and start BUYING all the STUFF.

Oh yeah, you KNOW that the Big Machine is fueled and lubricated with

Soul-Oil but figured, "Hell, I got enough to MAKE IT; I can SPARE

enough until I can GET OUT and then I'll be the Big Winner". You

who STILL THINK YOU CAN TRIUMPH, I salute you, because I know how

tenaciously, how desperately you cling to the illusion that the

Machine will LET you quit, INTACT and FREE, if you simply COMPLY

for a short time. Say, forty years. Or thirty years with

Early Retirement. Yeah, I salute you, you who are about to

GIVE YOUR ALL. You think, "Once I get out, I can recharge;

I can regrow and replace that soul that I gave away." And this MAY

be true. But the Machine is named Blackeneth and will NOT be

satisfied merely with your Soul. I am here today to tell you that I

too was a SINNER; I too WORKED at a JOB that I HATED. And I stand

before you, SHAMED, that I gave fuel unto that Machine that now has

you in it's inhuman GRIPTION. But I learned the Truth, and I stand

before you today repentant, to cast the Shining Light of

"Bob"'s Truth upon the darkness of the CONspiracy's lies; to

TESTIFY that the Beast Machine is NOT SATISFIED with merely your

Soul. I need a volunteer as I demonstrate the PROOF of what I

say. Alright, I have the time, I will demonstrate to you ALL what

the Machine will do to YOU, slowly, inexorably, inescapably.

Look closely at my face - this is NOT the face I started with when

I SOLD myself for my DREAM. LOOK at how square my jaw is - Christ,

I look like Monica Lewinsky, don't I? And it was not the pursuit of

esteem from a series of executive blowjobs that did this to me.

It was JOB STRESS. Yea, it was the mighty CLENCHING, and the Biting

of Tongue to keep from SCREAMING that caused my jaws to develop so

abnormally. OK, line up for the demo. Now just feel this jawbone,

yes, just lay a finger where the jaw hinges...<Clenching my jaws>

"Feel the size of that jawbone?", I say while biting down. Nods and a

curious "So what?" expression. NOW <relaxes the jaw>. And as the

finger sinks in a full INCH as the rock hard "Bone" reveals itself

to be overdeveloped muscle, I hear the inevitable *GASP* and see

the eyes widen in horror. THAT'S RIGHT, what you are seeing is the

IRREVERSIBLE DAMAGE inflicted by my own refusal to acknowledge

just what the Machine is REALLY doing to me. You who think that



members of your workplace and OPEN YOUR EYES to the pinched

shoulders and aching neck, the evasive expressions and receding

hairlines, the downcast eyes and the shuffling, bounceless steps

as they trudge towards their dreams. You think that they didn't

start with much Soul, and I agree, and now even THAT is gone. But

LOOK as well at what they have accepted PHYSICALLY, degree by

degree, and KNOW WELL that THIS damage is NEVER to be replaced,

NEVER to be outgrown. OPEN YOUR EYES to the inevitable damage

inflicted upon YOU, damage that you deny, the payment that the

Machine implied could be avoided if you only contribute just a

little bit of your Soul. AVOID NOT the realization that what

happened to ME is HAPPENING TO YOU. That you PAY, oh yes YOU PAY.

The STRONGER you are, the MORE you pay, but the CONSPIRACY has got

you thinking that you can AFFORD it, that you will gain it back one

day, that the COST is ONLY a bit of INTANGIBLE SOUL that will be

replenished when you achieve your dreams. LIES! You pay to oil the

jaws and sharpen the teeth of that Beast Machine so that it can

devour you, and devour you it will, slowly and certainly, all the

while telling you that YOUR DREAMS are WORTH THE SACRIFICE. Well,

children, your dreams ARE worth the sacrifice. This is truth and

you know it. This is the logic used to gain that internal

agreement, that commitment to keep going back to that job day

after day after day. YOUR DREAMS ARE WORTH THE SACRIFICE. Only,

WHO is it who set the RULES so that you HAVE to SACRIFICE in the

FIRST PLACE? Who uttered that unwritten law that you MUST sacrifice

in order to meet those dreams? Just who exactly was it that

convinced you that the ONLY WAY to GAIN YOUR DREAMS was to PAY and

PAY and PAY and PAY? Who convinced you that the CLEAR logic of

giving THEM your MIND, BODY, and SOUL in exchange for the MONEY

needed to BUY YOUR DREAMS is in any way the CORRECT logic, the

NECESSARY logic, the ONLY WAY TO GET THE JOB DONE? Who convinced

you, when you look at the vast majority of the unfulfilled and the

unsatisfied, the damaged and dreamless, that THEIR WAY will actually

PAY OFF in that distant future? Who suggested that their way is the

ONLY WAY let alone the BEST WAY? I say to you REPENT! REPENT NOW!!

QUIT YOUR JOB!!! As a Licensed Minister of the Mighty CHURCH of the

SubGenius, I am SICK and TIRED of seeing those damaged meatshells

sleepwalking through the workweek, those dying eyes vaguely focused

on the distant future, the PARALYSIS when the Boss demands yet

another degrading display of obsequiousness, the exhaustion at the

end of another day of fighting to maintain DEDICATION to an

ever-receding dream. Yes, *I* too WILL ask you to pay, for the

Church asks you to pay. But only $30, and only once. In return, we

will provide you with ALL YOU NEED to attain those dreams. And an

EXCUSE to REFUSE THEM those bits of your Soul. And WE just MIGHT

leave you with the physical resources to enjoy your dreams...




So, yeah, Lynn wrote me, and asked me if I was surprised to hear

from her after seven years. I decided to answer honestly and wrote

back that it creeped me out; what the hell was she thinking about

ME for? I don't believe that this was quite the response she

expected. I may have imagined it, but her reply seemed a bit

defensive as she explained that she had recently been to a quilt

exhibit near the Gription Garden and thought of Pam and me,

wondered how we were doing and what I've been up to.


So I told her I was now a Licensed Minister with greasy hair down to

my scrotum and a cleric's collar, that I work the absolute minimum

that I have to, that I play all week in the Garden and in the

Nursery that we are just getting underway, and that I have found

True Slack and basically that life couldn't be better, making the

most even of the minimal work situation by 1) not showing up at

all, or 2) writing to alt.slack when I get the chance. I told her

about Reverend Pam leading a Choir for so many years, I mentioned

our Noisy music and the Gription Clench recordings, and Pam

becoming a popular author of garden literature.


We are far more busy now than even a year ago, but it's GOOD busy.

Starting a business that we know we are going to enjoy and do well

has been a slice, pure Slack, and watching Pam's business skills

resurrect from so many years ago when she ran a half-million

dollar a year company before chucking it to found a Real Life(tm)

is damn heartening. I credit the CotSG for our ability to

recognize the CON and refuse it our Slack. What we've had to pay

in various fees, taxes, titles, and bribes has been MORE than

offset by the REAL CASH BENEFITS that we have stumbled into simply

by enjoying our work and taking the time to follow up on things

that MIGHT be worthwhile. The slimy fuck that charged $1400 to

poorly install a 400amp meter base (electric co wouldn't let me do

it, this was the BEST quote) pissed me off, but the next day we

saved $3000 on another deal. Legally. Dumbasses nearly kept us from

obtaining some really rare plants this spring, then the company

accidentally sent us TWICE what we ordered. Another company loses

our order, then accidentally sends us a catalog from THEIR suplier

(much cheaper) with the reorder info. Pam donates some design time

to Duke Gardens and the Head Man gives her his entire collection

of seeds from an Asian research expedition, plants never before

seen in this country, for her to take what she will.


I've built four 22'x100' greenhouses to date and am building

really nice 100' tables so no one has to bend to move plants.

Three greenhouses are chock full, and I gotta sprint to stay ahead

of the plants. I was losing a LOT of sleep while watering all this

by hand daily, but two weeks ago got a BIG irrigation tank and

installed pumps and now three of the greenhouses have automated

sprinklers. It's weird - I'm learning to do a hell of a lot that I

had expected to pay others to do, simply due to the fact that

others are often incompetent idiots and it is easier in the long

run to do the job correctly myself. I won't talk about the

sprinkler folks who were supposed to be EXPERTS at sprinkler

installation, except to mention that I simply asked them to leave

when I realized their LACK. I was inspired by the Three Stooges.

You know how the Stooges would start fucking up a job, then the

owner would say NO NO NO, You need to do THIS, THIS, and THIS and

have it done BEFORE I GET BACK, I'll be gone for three hours, right?

Well, I saved a LOT of Slack by NOT doing that.


The incompetence that we have encountered in nearly every

goddamn business deal might have left me a frazzled wreck, except

for the fact that I was primed and ready for it AND on the lookout

for stray Slack the whole while. When we needed a particular type

sprinkler head by Friday for the Stooges, and Pam said on Monday

that she finally located them in Smithfield, I said "I better just

drive out to get them." Pam said that the guy in Smithfield

COMMITTED to ship them UPS that morning, that he KNEW we needed

them Friday morning. He PROMISED that they would be here by

Wednesday. I simply said OK, I'll drive out to get them Thursday.

Sure enough, a call to the company on Wednesday to ask why we

hadn't seen UPS with our order got the reply, "I hadn't got around

to that yet." So I set the alarm for 5:30am, drove for four hours.

I stopped for gas and received a free contest/instant winner/

scratch here for $100,000 maybe card. Hmmm, I thought, but no, it

was not to be. And yet, Smithfield - the lovely NC town with the

huge "HOME of the KU KLUX KLAN" billboard at the city limits - did

have some Slack for me. In the McDonalds. I don't frequent fast

food places, and still have not recovered from my last visit to

Arbys, but I had to take a shit. Inside, a glass display case with

an original Fredric Remington bronze. Original edition, not a lost

wax reproduction, tho there is not a thing wrong with the repro's.

Original Remington. In Smithfield, in the McDonalds. SLACK!


So last weekend I finally had the time to pull together a special

packet for Lynn from the Handbill Mill of the Gods. She wanted to

read my stuff, so I gathered up a few of my posts, a few of SisPam's

posts, and a few others that I knew she would enjoy. I made a tape

of Pam's singing stuff, and a copy of our Gription stuff, and

packed it up in a Fed-X box with Dobbsheads on front and back. I

emailed her a copy of the Face Fucking Bat Sperm Antidote Pudding

Enigma so that when she awoke Monday she would know it was gonna

be a special week. When I got off work at 6am I headed over to the

place where I used to work. I still had my old badge, yet was

kinda leery about how policy may have changed during my seven

year absence. I remembered the security as being really lax, how

every few weeks a new security company was hired once the old

company guards were caught stealing computers, furniture, company

secrets, what have you. I also knew that I had changed considerably

as a result of my Ordination, that just the PSTENCH was going to be

enough to attract attention. There would be no way to be incognito

on this tour. I was going into the Heart of Pinkness, going openly

and brazenly with no suit, no necktie, no shiny shoes, no haircut.

Coupla weeks beard and dirty jeans & t-shirt. I had the column

number nearest Lynn's desk. I parked the truck where I once used to

park, limped, for I had wrenched my knee three days earlier and it

was tender and throbbing, confidently up to the guard station and

flashed my badge. Expressionless, he unlocked the door.


I was inside.


To my surprise the place was enormous. H-U-G-E. I had spent

the first three years of my life in St. Margarets hospital near

Chicago, and had had the wondrous experience of revisiting the

place many many years later. I have way many memories from even

that far back, and I had still known my way around. Then, I had

made my way to the play room that had seemed large, only to find

that it was an 8'x10' space. I remembered climbing up stairs and

each stair was half my size. This was the inverse experience. I

knew every hall, every area, but was astounded by how everything

had grown so. As it was still 6:30am I had plenty of time to walk

around, and soon figured out that Lynn's desk was at the farthest

reaches of the manufacturing floor. I had attracted more than a

few curious glances as I strolled through the building, but no one

had moved to stop me. I saw an assembly line crew all standing in

a semicircle facing a supervisor, and just for the ambience I

limped over and positioned myself where I could hear the morning's

instructions. I heard the supervisor say, "I want you to

do a thorough job here; now stretttttcccchhhhh" and the whole

fucking crew lifted their arms over their heads.... Exercises!?!?!

Mandatory Exercises first thing in the morning. Oh "Bob" get me OUT.

I limped the hell out of there, fast. It took like ten minutes to

make my way across the manufacturing floor. At quarter to seven I

located the correct column.


My GHOD. The "office" was all of 4'x6'. Really. It was upstairs in

an isolated quarter with only one door, opening onto maybe thirty

of these cubettes, each with walls 5' high on three sides. Lynn's

cubette was towards the back, with only one 8'x6' "meeting room"

between her office and the back wall. I scrunched into the space,

sat down, propped the Dobbshead package up on her desk next to the

computer, and considered my next move. There was a coffee pot set

on a small lateral file cabinet directly across from a miniature

desktop with a phone, bulletin board and calendar. Pictures of

Lynn's niece, now teenage; a cartoon of a cat saying "Bite Me".

A computer monitor on a table that jutted out so that if the file

cabinet hadn't been positioned firmly against the endwall, there

would be no room to retrieve the contents. As it was, the drawer

barely cleared the computer, and it was obvious that one could not

sit in a chair and open the file cabinet simultaneously. The back

of the chair rested firmly against the drawer of the file cabinet

when seated at the desk; the arm of the chair rested firmly

against the table holding the monitor.


There was one Weasel in the immediate area, an older guy who I

didn't know. The Flex Time policy, I knew, allowed him to show up

at work at 6am or 6:30am, fuck off until the boss arrived at

7:30am, and still go home at 2:30pm or 3pm. He was eating donuts.

He was watching me as I walked in, but I ignored him and went

directly to Lynn's cubette. I decided to wait fifteen minutes to

see if Lynn shows up at 7:00.


I was wishing then that I had brought a handfull of Dobbsheads and

stickers. I jiggled the mouse on her computer and tried typing

"Face Fucking Bats" in the login screen, just to leave the

message, but the screen just showed asterisks. Damn. It was then

that I got the idea to leave some notes. I grabbed a post-it pad

and pencil and started writing little one-liners. Lots of 'em.

Anything that popped into my head, mostly "Bob" oriented or Slack

stuff - "kNOw "BOB" kNOw SLACK", that sort of thing. Or lyrics:

"Spontaneous Human Combustion / Whoops, there goes another one / A

raging fire, a funeral pyre / An Unexpected Cremation - the Bobs"

I put them on the walls, in the file cabinet, behind stuff, in

books. I found Lynn's schedule book and left her Slackful messages

for the rest of the year. I scribbled stuff on her calendar. The

Office Weasel walked by, then returned, and I looked up, but he kept

his eyes straight ahead and kept moving. Probably leaving something

on the desk across the hall. I drew a bat and wrote "FFB" and

placed it near Lynn's coffee machine, which was autobrewing.


The oppressiveness of the place must have been getting to me,

because my cryptic messages got more and more pointed. I wrote

"Take a look" and then stopped. I was GOING to quote Cobain,

"Take a Look at Who You Are, it's Pretty Scary" but I thought,

"That's pretty abrasive for someone I haven't seen in years."

But I had already started, so I wrote "Take a Look Around /

It's Pretty Scary - Kurt Cobain (DEAD)" * and wondered if she would

tag me for the mis-quote. I left this note next to the coffee

machine, wrote a few more. I waited until 7:10, thinking how

Lynn always used to be late dragging her lazy ass into work, then

decided she probably comes in at 7:30 or 8:00, and I headed out to

the cafeteria, which was on the far side of the plant.


My knee was throbbing and I had to rest every few steps. I

recognized several people and enjoyed the fact that they walked

right past me without a hint of remembrance. I saw Sherry D. in the

cafeteria and stopped by to say hi. I had to prompt her memory,

then she kept saying that she COULD NOT believe how much I had

changed. While talking to her I got this weird feeling, and looked

around in time to see the Office Weasel staring at me from the

other side of the room with what looked like fear, eyes wide,

before he turned and scurried off. Strange dude, I thought.


I made my way slowly back across the building, up the stairs to

Lynn's desk. It was nearly 7:30, and I had an idea. I went instead

into the meeting room next to her cubette, thinking I'd wait for

her to arrive. I thought I would just slowly peek up over the

cubette wall, or maybe make grunting, mooing noises until she

investigated. I sat down and read the motivational posters lined

up on the walls, until they began to really piss me off. I wrote

more notes, on larger paper, to offset the obvious lies of the


The Company Wants You to Get What You Want, Just as Long As You

Want What THEY Want You to Want.


This got posted up on the wall next to a poster. Then another.

Then another. The simple PRABOB's had taken an ugly turn and were

becoming mini-rants. This was unavoidable, because of the posters.

Easily seen from most of the room, I still knew that the 'droids

would probably not even notice them for days. Lynn would probably

be mortified at the thought that the new posters were in any way

associated with her, fearing the hushed whispers and suppressed

giggles of the co-workers as they pointed at her, and so would

probably take them down soon. On the other hand, I know that in

the corporate environment such things are often left in place for

months, as it is nobodys job to clean them up. We have a Bass Club

meeting notice that someone pasted on a wall last October in the

area here as I write. So there was a chance of semi-permanence.

Well, no, not really, because these things would be vaguely

threatening to the office-sheep, being unconventional, and someone

would report the "issue" to management. Not take them down

personally, mind you, but report them. I remember this

well. Management would make a display of ripping them down and

collecting the evidence, get all huffy, and announce an

investigation that would never be followed up.


I was sitting down writing another response to an asinine poster

when I heard movement on the other side of the wall. To my utter,

incredulous HORROR, it was Lynn's boss, Harry P***, and the Office

Weasel, standing at the coffee machine.


All thought processes stopped except for "Oh Gawd.....Oh

gawd.....I...I...OH GAWD....Oh....Ohhhh....GAWWWWD...I... Oh

GAWD..." I had to pick my oversized jaw up off the table.

Jesus-H-Fucking-Christ-On-a-Raft. The indignation had not yet set

in, but the Horror, The HORROR!


The cubette is all of twenty four square feet with probably six

square feet to actually move around in, and as if it is not

degrading enough to spend your workweek shoehorned into a space

that would be unacceptable in a morgue, the entire damn departments

gotta use the office as a coffee area, standing around

bullshiting. Oh Gawd...


I remembered the indignities seen at the copy machine, where the

executives --anyone with any management authority whatsoever--

would cut in with an, "EXCUSE me, I need to copy this," and the

hapless pion would have to let them make their copy first. Office

etiquette would demand that the peed-on make some conciliatory

remark such as, "Go right ahead." I met my good friend Colleen, a

temp in that building, at a copy machine, where she ASKED me if I

needed to go first, then THANKED me, very surprised, for not being

an arrogant prick. I could envision the endless stream of office

sheep bleating, "EXCUSE me, I need a cup of coffee," while Lynn

bows and scrapes as she steps outside of her cubette to allow the

sheeple to relieve themselves, so to speak. Then they block her

re-entry, forcing her into polite, meaningless conversation as

they stand there sipping in her six square feet. Oh GAWD...


I am still dumbfounded as the Office Weasel begins to talk.

"Harry, I think we might have a problem. This morning, there was

this guy in here who didn't belong. He came in and sat at Lynn's

desk." His voice got real low. "He was WEIRD, Harry. I mean, he

looked bad. REAL bad." He says this in a tone of voice usually

reserved for guys following little girls around in the Walmart.


I am sitting literally two feet from them on the other side of a

five foot wall. I can see Harry's eyebrows, can discern his

expression, but can't see his eyes. I'm thinking that they MUST be

able to see the top of my head, as I can see theirs, and at any

moment they're going to be real startled.


"Harry, I think he did THIS. I mean, why would someone do this?"

At first I thought he meant the package, but then I saw he was

looking at the Cobain note. Why would someone misquote Cobain? No,

I think he was making a more general comment.


Paper noises, and Harry is examining the note. The Office Weasel

has obviously worked in a corporate environment for a while,

because he immediately retracts his statement. "Wait, I guess I

should say that I didn't actually see him writing this. But he was

sitting at Lynn's desk, writing something on that paper, using a

pencil." Never accuse, never commit. "What I don't understand is,

why would anyone DO something like this?" Harry said "I dunno".


Encouraged by this response, he said again, "He was weird, real

weird. I went downstairs and got a Security Guard." Harry's head

snapped up and he was looking closely at the Weasel, who stammered

"Harry, I'm telling you. You should have seen this guy. I got a

security guard, but by time we got back here he was gone."


A security guard. Oh SHIT, more weasels are after me. Hot on my

trail. What am I to do? They have walkie-talkies, and my

description has probably been circulated to every guard in the

plant. They're closing in. And I'm trapped here. They'll

probably...ask to see my ID! Well, OK, I HAVE a badge. "Sorry, sir,

just checking. We had this report..." Haw Haw Haw.


Office Weasel is talking again. "I CONFRONTED him. I asked him

what he was doing, but he just LOOKED at me. He wouldn't say

anything. REAL Weird."


LIAR! I couldn't believe it. The guy would wet his pants if I

stood up and said matter-of-factly, "Boo". If the wall wasn't

there I could have easily reached out and grabbed him.


"He didn't have a badge, but I saw him down in the cafeteria

talking to someone there. I don't know, maybe he works here,

but...What I want to know is why anyone would do something like



AGAIN! OK OK OK. Listen Closely. I thought that Lynn owned the

whole 24 square feet. I didn't know that her cubette was the

coffee room for the entire department. I was leaving the note for

LYNN. Had you bothered to actually TALK to me, you may have found

that I am a considerate, intelligent, hardworking Yeti who

probably knows your job better than you do and who can entertain

you with stories about most everyone in the department. You think

you are concerned NOW, wait until I stand up and say "Hi, Harry"

and you find out that Harry not only knows me, but likes me and

RESPECTS me. Your credibility is AT RISK here. Wait until I call

you out, Weasel Boy.


It's unexpected, but Harry P*** is easily in the top five nicest,

kindest, most genuine people I've met in the company. He was not a

manager when I knew him, and I'm glad to see that he is now

because if I ever WANTED a manager, he would be at the top of my

list. Fair, sharp, interesting, concerned - a Good Guy. I really

like him, always have. Lynn is also in that top five. I'm glad she

has Harry for a Boss.


Harry is saying that this IS strange, that they better keep an eye

out for me and ask me if I have any business there. He says

that he'll alert Lynn, just in case there is trouble. Like I said,

the guy is considerate and truly concerned, and actually unafraid

to INQUIRE before making snap judgements.


I decide to stand up and introduce myself.


Just then, it occurs to me that Lynn will be walking in shortly,

and will tell them that it was me. Harry will be relieved. Hmmm.

Lynn still hasn't set eyes on me, and probably thinks that my

self-description is a big story, that the Ministry is a big story,

that the Pstench is a big story. Would it not be far better for her

to walk in to the big eyes and terror, to hear first hand of the

mutation? She will have just read about the Bats. Would it not

be more damaging to Weasel Boy's credibility if Lynn tells

Harry it was me? Harry still carries a mental snapshot of the

old me. He'll never believe the description. Lynn has the

package on her desk. The stage is set and the players have their

lines. A gift, an I-told-you-so, and a Black Mark for the Office

Weasel. Yesssss.


So I waited five minutes after they walked off, peered over the

wall, then limped to freedom.


Well, I didn't go directly to freedom. I went first to the North

guard station and told him that I was way lost, inquired after the

East parking lot. I made sure they saw me walk off in the opposite

direction from what they just told me. I walked directly to the

West guard station, told them I was lost, inquired after the North

parking lot, and let the guy see me walk South. At the South

station I asked for directions to the West lot, walked to the

East station, asked after the North lot, and THEN escaped to



Rev. Random the Other

Gription Clench

*this was a DEVO cover I later learned


ps - it's been a week, and Lynn hasn't contacted me. Several calls

rolled to voice mail. It would be so great if she was on vacation

the whole week. Err, I guess it's possible that she REALLY regrets

ever contacting me...DON'T LOOK BACK, LYNN!