Synopsis: Murder

I am writing from the side of the Florida turnpike after having been kicked, flattened by a pasta press, kneaded and beaten into a small little pulp of Moogoo Gaipan, fit to be served at a Chinese restaurant. They have killed my intellect and chopped up my confidence into a million tiny little giner bread men and fed them to a group of very hungry, tiny little children. I started out this venture with an inkling that I know nothing and I am nobody. Today, I know I know nothing and have been subdued (via Tazer) into the gentle persuasion that I am smaller than the dirt on your shoe. In fact, I am so small that a nanobacterium's spit covers me from head to toe.

Don't call 911 or the FBI because they won't find me since I have been amalgamated into a slop of medical goo, ready to defend the ass from an impending lawsuit.

I remember my last words as I was karated, numchucked and harangued, screaming at the top of my lungs and kicking with all my might, I may have dislocated both femurs, : "YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"
They can still hear my uvula vibrating down the corridor.

Albeit, my soul lays intact at the bottom of its makeshift, shallow grave. I assume it will rise again and make a miraculous come back and exact revenge on the king pins that are responsible for the deluge of psychological murder and maiming so they can stand trial at Nuremberg.

I wait patiently. For now, I have this for them