Where the fuck are you, man?

Your Main Guy,
Rob Kinda-Fucking-Tweaked-Off-that-You-Just-Skipped-Out-Without-Leaving-a-Fucking-Note-or-Shit Miller.

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Begin Transcription:

"I AM HERE, ROBERT."

"What?"

"YOUR MISSIVE, OF WEEK LAST, WHEREIN YOU INQUIRED AS TO MY LOCATION; ANSWER: HERE."

"Dude, what are you talking about?"

"LOOK UPON THIS PAPER WHICH I FOUND AFFIXED TO MY TANK. I ASKED THAT FELIX MOISTURE SEAL IT IN HIS MEAL-THE-SEAL-A-DEAL AND DELIVER IT HENCE."

"What is that shit you are holding up? Is that a letter? It's kinda bubbled out so I can't read it from here. Next time, laminate that shit, man. It's a letter, not fucking sous vide or whatever."

"ROBERT! THIS IS YOUR LETTER. YOU WROTE UPON IT AND AFFIXED IT TO MY TANK. LOOK, IT IS SIGNED BY YOU, AND IT IS COMPOSED IN YOUR NOTABLE AND CHARACTERISTIC TONE."

"Everything cool, Lord A? Your tank all right, man? Maybe I call Melinda? She knows your tank better than me, man."

"MELINDA? OF WHOM DO YOU SPEAK, ROBERT? WHO IS THIS 'MELINDA'?"

"Jesus H. Christ, forgive my fucking blasphemy, but I am calling Melinda right fucking now."

{Long pause.}

"Yeah, Yo, can you get over here? He ain't right again. This is like that... yeah, uhuh, yeah..."

"ROBERT. ARE YOU TALKING INTO YOUR PINKING FINGER AND THUMB AS THOUGH YOU SPOKE INTO A PRETENDING TELEPHONIC DEVICE?"

"Yeah, just a second... Yo, Lord A, this is my fucking phone. What are you on about? ... Yeah, he's weird. Can you get up here soonish? I got to meet my brother and his fiancee. They need me to meet with the priest. Best man and shit, you know it. ... Uhuh. Slick. See you soon. Bye."

"ROBERT. I AM HERE. IN THE LABORATORY. IN THE MOTOR CITY OF DETROIT?"

"The Motor City of what the fuck? Just cool it, Lord A. I think something is way wrong."

"NO, ROBERT, I WAS BRIEFLY RESIDING AT THE FICTIONAL DIRECTORATE, AND THEN I FELT A PINCH UPON THE CREST OF MY CEPHALIC SACK, AND THEN.... AH.... HMMMMM....."

"ROBERT, WHY DO YOU JUST SIT THERE AND READ THE ANIMATED TATTOOS ON YOUR PALMS?"

"Sorry, What, Man? I was just checking my status, reading the blegs, emailing and shit. Everything's cool, Lord A. Melinda be here any minute. I gotta scram when she gets here, but she'll take good care of you. Don't worry man. You're just lucky I was up here. I ain't been around in seven weeks, but my Mom said I should check in on you, see how things are going. She worries about you, man. You scared her over Christmas."

"ROBERT?"

"Yeah, man?"

"WHERE IS THE RIVER?"

"What?"

"I LOOK OUT MY TANK AND I ONLY SEE BUILDINGS. THIS BUILDING, THIS CENTER OF RENAISSANCE, ISN'T SHE NEARLY UPON THE RIVER DETROIT, THE STRAITS OF LAFAYETTE? WAIT, WHY ARE YOU SCRAMBLING TO INSPECT THE DIALS ON THE DISPLAY OUTSIDE OF MY TANK?"

"You are certifiably freaking my shit out, man. Everything looks copacetic here, but damn. What the hell are you talking about Detroit for? Have you ever even been in that hick burgh? Where you even hear about Detroit? Man, I ain't been up there since, like, 1987 when my Dad got it into his head that we needed to start camping?"

"ROBERT?"

"What, man?"

"WHERE AM I?"

"That's a good fucking question, man. I should be asking you. Where the fuck are you, man?"

"I DON'T KNOW."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, you are in fucking Toledo, just like always, man. Motown herself. Motherfucking Toledo, Michigan."

"ROBERT?"

"Yeah, man?"

"I FEEL THE HUMAN EMOTION CALLED FEAR."

"No shit, Lord A. Me too."

Transcript confirmed against original by M.I. Leeks, April 27, 2010.

Note: the technical ingenuity of this experiment orbited the problem of rigging an audio recorder and a subcutaneous poison capsule to both be triggered by the same photon spin value. The short solution: entanglement.

In expectation of the return of Mr. Architeuthis Dux, late of Detroit
I Remain,
Michael Ignatius Leeks, CPA
Interim Editor-in-Chief, Poor Mojo's Almanac(k)