If and when I ever find my Quincunx Key.
CHECK YOUR OTHER (REDACTED).
I am still sorting through the hard drives from 2014.
PURPLE SEVEN, STANDING BY.
(RED_QUEEN): CAPTURED.
RIPE PROTOCOL: ONGOING.
BEWARE OF THE FRUITERER, IRVING MOSES—HE BOUGHT ONE OF MY TICKETS, AND IT'S BEEN NOTHING BUT TRIFLING, EVER SINCE.
AND NOW...
sidebar.I know how it happened, I know how it started, and I know how the various assault violations occurred. Eww,
gross. Now, that's what I call, a sticky situation.
It's not what anyone thinks... except, those in the no
quarter.
It's not pretty. Personally, Person Ally, you're fucking lucky you came anywhere even close to getting out alive. “Are you fucking nuts? That (blank) (blank) (blank) is never going to give you a job.” Is hypnosis a job? I guess it is one for
aunts.
Nailed it. Now, as We all know—well, some of Us—unique voiceprints composed of seldomly-used words can be shown, in and of themselves, to be quite useful. “A-thousand-and-one-a-bloo-bloo-bloo-bloo-bloo-boo-hoo-boo-hoos,” as has often been said.
Especially in times like these. I'm presently standing fully naked, over Grapefruit, she's snoring away the morning; I am totes in command of the situation here. No Tarot deck at hand. No 25# dick.
No Dickstar. No remorse, and fucking no regrets. But what I do have... it's not a plan. It's a
blueprint.What I do have... are
options. Some people sure have less than others, don't they? Yeah, I'll bet they do, and as I am, here & now, Sourceror MAJESTIK, don't bother monogramming any hankies for me, because one of the options that I have available to me now_here, is to pack it up, blast off, and get so fucking almost fucking famous, which of course means changing names again.
I'm not even kidding. I have the tools at hand to duplicate the denouement. In just a few minutes, I could stage the most convincing murder-suicide that the world has ever known. We could own the world.
Oh, wait, we already did. We own the world. What's in your glass?
my Quincunx Key.
Yeah, less likely than one might think; but still—superior to a Clinton central portal line. I still wouldn't recommend it. The Quincunx hath spoken timely–wisely.
END OF SIDEBAR.
START OF ADDRESS BOOK.
TRIUMPH OF AGENT BOOM.
NAMES, NAMES, NAMES. FULL SPREAD.
I NEED A VACATION. I AM GETTING TOO OLD FOR THIS SITH BISHOP. TIME TO UPGRADE.
MAJESTIK CONFIRMED.
DIVINATION ABSENT.
EVIDENCE CHAIN OF CUSTODY—LOCKED.
THIS IS NO GAME. ILU—SUNSHINE.
And now, for my next trick—which is, TYPICALLY, an activity a clandestine agent engages in for payola; but is only done to impress girls here—I'm going to hot-swap those Folger’s Crystals for these pulverized Cinnamon Toast Crunch crumbs ’n’ dust.
It's not just a job—it's a courtesan. Yes, of course it's an android.
Actual. THERE ARE FIVE HEAD LIGHTS.
BLOW TWO OUT.
55 HOUSEKEYMASTERS SIMPLY CUNT BE WRONG.
