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Binky
I don't know when it all started. If I had to put a date on it, I'd put November 1st, nineteen ninety... seven? Nine?
At any rate, then, like now, I was hungry. Real hungry.
Like I wanna cry, and I'm going to, and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop me type of crying hungry.
It was messy.
So there's no guarantee about the dates, because not only does a hungry mind write differently than a satisfied mind, it also can't remember dates to save its' life. Which is very well what it might come down to, if I didn't crack this lock in the next fifteen to twenty minutes.
Like what year is it now, anyway?
Look at me: filthy, hungry as all get out, sitting on the floor trying to pick a lock, a child prodigy of some indeterminate years, and unable to tell you with any degree of certainty what the hell year it is.
I tell you, if I were the people who were keeping me locked up I'd ask for a refund on their child genius, because this one was pretty damn broken.
It might be something to do with the music they've been playing at me for the last forty-eight hours or so, it's driving me slightly batty.
It all kicked off when I picked the first lock on this door, the very door I'm leaning against, trying desperately to get cracked now, partially due to my initial motivation for getting the door open, which was to escape this prison, and now largely to just get the hell away from the music. I think it's some new Elvis remix. Not that I have anything against Elvis, or remixes, it's just when it's blared at you, like they used to blare it at Noriega down in good old Panama. I don't, of course, remember that firsthand. I'm a kid, remember? A kid in captivity.
Why am I being held? I'm not entirely sure. That's a good question. I haven't had too much time to think about it, what with my childhood quickly slipping away from me while I try to do differential calculus and working out some particle physics problems you'd probably get a real kick out of seeing a kid of around four to six years old do. A real gut-buster. Laugh-a-minute. At least I'm assuming this from the reaction of the people looking at my very own monkey cage here in... well, wherever I am. It might be Montana. I only say Montana because I don't recognise it, and I'd never been to Montana before being kidnapped. It probably isn't even Montana.
This last lock is slightly more difficult, it's got some sort of laser sensor on the inside, which I've never seen before in a lock. Good move, putting those in locks. Makes 'em pretty secure, I have to say.
I also say why haven't they just come in and gotten me already. They seem to know that I'm trying to escape, due to our friend Elvis cranking it out over the loudspeakers, an almost instantaneous result of me cracking the first lock (which was a nice, easy-peasy bolt lock, one you stick a hairpin in and can fiddle around to opening in no time at all). So why not pop down, hit me with a couple of those blow guns they keep peppering me with, and call it a day?
Maybe that's more entertainment. The people in the shiny suits outside the door are hanging around, and I think they can see in. If not, I've been missing the whole point of this, and I should have rung the buzzer, asking for popcorn and a coke ages ago. I'm missing some prime entertainment: people in silver shiny suits, as I've mentioned, apes, also in shiny suits, a man with a very large head who always looks slightly more green than a person should, and Manuel Noriega. I think, about that last one. Again, I'm a kid, what do I know?
Anyway, whoever it is, Manuel or someone else, he smokes a hell of a lot of cigars.
If I had to guess? I'm in Slaughterhouse Six... and I really wish someone would just gimme some food already.
disclaimer:
You've been a great audience, thanks. Enjoy your thing.
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