I am Not a Reader - Part 2

After a spasm of confusing and conflicting comments to the first post in this series, we sent Trevor an email to make sure we were still on speaking terms. He wrote from his hospital bed to assure us that we were still chums, and then followed up this display of good nature by writing a second part to his I am Not a Reader note, which we present here.

I am 98.156542% sure that there is a small doubt nagging at the back of your mind. At random times, and even awkward moments, it whispers to you: “Trevor wrote that comment. Trevor no liiiiike you. Or he have a split personalityyyy….”

In order to quell that doubt, or perhaps to negate the aftereffects, I set out one day to find the imposter.

I was… released… from the hospital at 12:12 P.M. By 12:13 I pulled up to my driveway in a stolen ambulance. I rushed inside with a single thought -- to change from the embarrassing hospital gown to something more befitting a secret agent. You would have thought that I would have learned from my previous encounter, but as I burst into my room I was knocked flat by a full-sized ninja with pink tights and a gorilla mask.

Later I discovered why ninjas seem to enjoy robbing my house. It’s a migration instinct left over from the mass population flood of Siamese midgets… but you’ll hear more about that later.

To make a short story long, the ugly ninja which makes this story popular ran out of the room. Immediately afterward, a random popular pirate crashed through the ceiling and landed on my head, asking me the way to the Caribbean. I pointed vaguely in the direction of Texas, and told him to have fun.

It was 12:20 by the time I was fully rigged out in my spy gear. Tux, pistol, handcuffs, and those spiffy plastic watches that contain every gadget from telescopes to decoders. I actually looked like James Bond, especially after I greased up my hair with floor wax. A few adjustments to advantageously accent my modest figure, and I was ready for some hard core spying.

First I pinged the IP address of the imposter who left the comment in my name. It turned out to be a randomly assigned portal commonly used by Soviets in Africa. ‘Course, we all know who that is (chah, rFCN).

I don’t want to bore you with stupid details. With only a few casualties, I managed to hijack a plane from the local airport, where security is less than cautious. After a short flight to the African continent, I kindly left the plane in Ouagadougou, so that the airline company could find it easily. Yaddah yaddah yaddah, you don’t wanna hear about that garbage.

So. After landing, I found a hidden cache of weapons. I stole a machine gun, a grenade or two, then blew the rest up -- I am truly a pyromaniac at heart. I regretted it immediately afterward, however, as I was chased by angry tribesmen who believed that I had set fire to their village. It wasn’t true at all, really. How was I to know that those little huts were inhabited by people?

I was chased for a couple hundred yards, until I got tired. So I let the tribesmen catch up to me, and gave them guns in exchange for the damage done to their village. They seemed pretty happy with the deal.

Blah blah blah. Let’s see… the rampaging rhinos, berserk pygmy shrews, pirate ninjas, ninja pirates… ah, yes. I ended up in Erg d'Agmer, a sandy portion of Africa where only evil spirits and Communists reside. With some high-tech equipment pillaged from Le village et les gorges de Yi Yerra, I began tracking the name usurpers. I was little surprised to discover an advanced civilization of pink-clad ninja minja midget warriors residing in underground caves in the region. If you will kindly read on, momentarily I will make the connection between the civilization, my house, migration, and the pink tights.

It was obvious that rFCN had set up base nearby. I snuck past the local Wal-Mart before I was attacked by ninja children, who were emo. I made peace by giving them a grenade, then asked them where I could find the local rFCN headquarters. They chattered excitedly in Russian, then pointed to a nearby shack with antennas and wires poking crazily from the roof.

As I walked stealthily toward the house, I heard smothered laughter and an explosion behind me. I glanced back to see Wal-Mart on fire… oh well, none of my business.

The shack turned out to be empty of life. It was well stocked with computers and scientific equipment, however. I busted a window and crept inside, stealing up to one of the computers. After a quick hack, I discovered that it was indeed these people who had stolen my identity. They were soviets from Europe, who had moved to China and from there to Africa during the war of 1812. They had picked up the ninja way in Siam, and had acquired their manner of dress from ballets in Italy. My house had once been a communications base for NaBB, Ninja and Ballerina Broadcast. It seems that it was now a popular attraction for local ninjas.

Enough said. To abbreviate things, I blew up the shack and headed home on a stolen cruise liner. As I piloted my way home, I remembered that I had destroyed the evidence by blowing up the computers. Ahh, well… FCN will believe me anyway, right?

So really, I accomplished nothing in the end. But know this, FCN, subsidiaries and affiliates: I, Trevor, believe wholeheartedly in FCN’s right to publish content sent to their e-mail address. It is stated clearly that FCN will probably post any e-mail sent to them; whether caustically, or spitefully, or in an unrighteous manner. I attest that I know this, and that I sent my e-mail with every intention of my story being treated in this way. To the imposter who still lurks out there, I say “Yah boo sucks! Hope you fall into a sewer, or get kissed by Millary Clinton. Or both, necessarily in that order.”

Good for you, Trevor. And yes, we believe every word. We ran your post through a special device in the FCN Lab that evaluates the truthfulness of statements and it didn't beep once, so we know you're in the clear.

Readers, if you want more fun stuff from Trevor, check out his blog, Class C2. It's delicious.