is knowing that these dispatches are being read by the world. That the world knows of my plight, and that my colleagues are extending themselves to their utmost to find me and release me from this hell hole.
“Al”—as the pudgy guy in the next cell but one continues to insist I call him (as in “I was once the next president of this country” I guess—is ailing. Coughing through the night and complaining that he’s going to die if they don’t let him out. When they move him we’re locked in our cells and he passes by, trussed and muzzled. Hannibal the Cannibal...
Hugh—wherever you're holed up with that pair of babes—it's not working. We rolled in from that little beach blanket go-gofest that we've always said we should give the interns (see what you're missing you bastard?) to find this scrap of sodden toilet paper tacked on the office door.
Give it up.