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born in a Sri Lankan prison, I spent my formative years smuggling deodorant across the Ural Mountains. It was hard, with four parents and seventy three brothers and sisters, to feed them all, especially without any bones in my hands. My life in the Mongolian underworld led to a more lucrative career in yak counterfeiting, a practice commonplace in eastern Asia in which we would disguise common cows as pack yaks, a much more valuable and prized animal. Unfortunately, we often had to kill yaks to get the materials for counterfeiting. We never found our way around that problem.
When I finally moved to the States, it was only after a stint in Mauritius (a small island off the coast of Madagascar) as a scallop herder, and shellfish ventriloquist. Upon reaching America, I found a job as a trucker, transporting loads of derelicts and parfaits across state lines, for no apparent reason, and for no money at all. That was the charitable point in my life. At this point, I find myself struggling to keep afloat, literally, as my houseboat sinks slowly into mighty Lake Malawi, my wireless connection, and my life with it, taking the water elevator down into the inky blue depths of doom. I will escape, as I always tend to do when it is easy, most probably using age old techniques taught to me by a tribesman on the Menara penisula, so that I may walk on water. Using my telekinesis to type these last words, I hope to speak to you soon. Perhaps in your thoughts, perhaps with your own voice? Adieu.

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