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pyewackkit (4243)

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Journal of pyewackkit (4243)

Thursday May 29, 2003
07:15 AM

Smothering Attack Failed!

Dear Log,

That the Beast still lives despite last night's efforts doesn't discourage me entirely. It is true that as night fell, I had every confidence that my latest plot to free me and the world from the lumbering, oppressive dolt that controls my food and my fate would succeed. Yet, I must remain hopeful. Indeed, hope is all I have.

My plan was simple and in that my expectations for freedom were high. As the Beast lay gibbering and leaden upon his obese pillow, I would feign affection for him, as I usually do, by purring softly and nudging him with my head. On most nights I lie awake with eyes afixed on the Beast, burning with hatred. However, last night's ploy caught him unawares and he let down his guard. I then moved in for the finishing move. Against his swollen, vacuous skull, I buttressed my ample backside squarely across his nose and mouth so that the rancid air of my prison would cease to sustain him.

But the Beast would not be so easily subdued!

Craftly, he moved his head away from my lethal back-fat. Without delay, I non-chalantly moved my substantial frame forward to resume my attack. A few moments later, the Beast again moved away. Undaunted, I plied the full fury of my furry hind-quarters to my opponent in one last, desperate assault. Alas, the Beast caught on to my plan and removed me from the bed entirely (with an ungentle shove!). With my enemy on his guard, there could be no futher attempts that night to topple his hegemony. I limped into a safe corner, cried bitter tears of anger and frustration until sleep took me.

But with the tears of this defeat, I shall water new plans for my emancipation. I shall yet overcome!

Sunday May 18, 2003
05:06 PM

Shark Ethics

Dear Log,

As is his want, the Beast stubbornly refuses to feed me in a timely manner despite my determined efforts to make my hunger patently obvious to him. Even the most insensate stooge would be hard pressed to misinterpret my plaintive cries and insistant head nudges for anything but what it is: a strident yearning for nutrishment. Not that the food around here is likely to bring the chefs of Europe running to this feeble kitchen. I imagine the culinary conversation between a qualified chef and the Beast running along these lines.

"My goodness Beast, how on Earth do you prepare such a repast for Pyewackkit?"

"Oh that's easy! With a plastic cup, I scoop in the food pellets from the five pound bag and pour them into Pye's dish. Sometimes, I give him water too."

"Mon Dieu! I've cooked for the royality of Europe, but I don't know where to begin reproducing the dishes you make, Beast. I salute you!"

If I had other means of obtain food, I would gladly avoid the Beast. But, my research has shown that my hunger cannot be sated by the occassional spider, millipede and fly that happens my way. Although once a sparrow managed to enter my prison, the Beast intervened before I could feed. What a waste!

I think it may be possible to procure food from this machine through which I write these missives. If only I understood better the madness of the Beast's culture! Patience. I must have patience. It is my best and only weapon in this long, desolate war of attrition.

Saturday May 17, 2003
09:09 PM

Sweet Freedom

Dear Log,

I must be brief or that lumbering idiot will catch me at his laptop and then all will be lost! My sanity depends on this tenuous link to the world outside my warden's reach. If there is a merciful God, surely he'll grant me this one small favor?

To compress a lifetime of experiences, loves and losses, into the span of a few paragraphs is beyond my merger skill, but here are the essentials. I was born into a poor but honorable family in Pennsylvania thirteen years ago. Of my brothers and sisters, I remember little. Surely, we played and fought much as other siblings have done for centuries. My mother was kindly, but heavily burden with task of keeping her children alive. Those were the happiest days of my life, I think.

That changed some few months after my birth. I was hardly weaned from my mother's teats when I was pressed into the cruel servitude of my first human master. Although she was merciful enough, even a gilded cage seers the prisoner's soul. It was in her keeping that I met my one true love, Kilean. Ah, there was a fair lass! Full of life and energy, she was my companion and friend. She was my sky and stars. She was the Earth to my moon.

Praise the blessed Fates that brought her to me.

But like all good things, our time together ended and she moved on to brighter pastures while I was left with that dull, dull man-child beast. I will not test your patience, gentle reader, with the catalog of insipid stupidities visited upon me daily by that cretin, but I will say that I survive today only through the measured application of my indomitable will: mined from the rich vein of my cunning ancestors, forged in the crucible of my tempestuous youth, and hardened by the winds of wicked fortune.

Through careful observation and patience on loan from heaven, I have managed to apprehend the language of my torturer and now intend to use his own tools to visit upon him the righteous fury of vendetta. To do this, I need only time. Everyday, the noose tightens around the oaf's florid neck. Like the frog in slow-boiling pot, he doesn't grasp the depth of peril. I pray he does not until it is too late, for what he lacks in subtlety of the mind, he readily compensates with brutal strength.

Yet as a just God as my witness, I will shall yet prevail!