Grace Augustine, H.R. Director

ARIES Customer Service and Collections Intergalactic, LLC

Private Journal

December 18, 2020

[0000]

Contrary to popular belief, I'm not dead.

There have been some fanciful stories going around to that effect. A lot of misinformation.

Sadly, due to the various non-disclosure policies within ARIES, I am not permitted to correct these errors, except in the form of this journal, which probably not see the light of day until decades after the date of my actual death.

Believe it or not, I was not killed by a heavily armed mining operation, and therefore was also not subsumed into a giant tree.

I am alive and well, gainfully employed by a struggling branch of a massive interplanetary customer service conglomerate that just so happens to have the ability to send office buildings through time and space.

I do not expect you to believe me. It's a hard pill to swallow. I barely believe it myself, but it's true.

Right now, I'm at a company `Holiday' (Christmas) party.

It's not your typical office party. For one thing, we're on an alien planet, so we can't go up to the surface and have a barbecue. The atmosphere is toxic to human beings. Instead, our `party planners' set everything up in a cavern connected to our building. It's a nice one, ventilated enough for a large bonfire and a deluxe barbecue grill.

Again, our building travels through space and time. The details are a little complicated, but it involves folding dimensions. Don't ask me to explain, there's a technician that handles the operation. I wouldn't know how to begin to repair the equipment if something broke down.

The top portion of the building is the `front' we show people in America and other countries of earth when we go there. A security locked sub basement contains the core of our real operation, a few of the unfinished sections occasionally connecting to the cavern systems of various planets (the steersman plots out the best locations, again, complicated, not sure how things don't get demolished when we're moving around.

The men dressed like slobs, the women wore some things that could barely be described as pants, paired with tops that weren't much better, when they weren't ugly Christmas sweaters. By the way, the winner of the guy's ugly Christmas sweater contest had lights and a Star Wars robot pattern.

We got a makeshift bar setup-uses a natural shelf of the cavern and the company liquor fund (honor system of tabs - abuse and lose - the tab, not the alcohol). Abby Escobar, the portly blonde daughter of Pablo, one of our CEO's, probably shouldn't be allowed to have shots. She gets a few candy flavored specialty shots and some Vodka cherry limeades and she starts hugging on everybody, playing piggyback, singing and dancing (mostly `twerking') badly to the karaoke system. Her father isn't much better, but he's got extra age and pounds on her, and isn't nearly as limber, so he couldn't make as much of a fool of himself.

Toad Man, our towering barbecue chef, was also a little too tipsy, betting fifty on a nonwinning pool game. In case you're wondering, we built the table from a kit. The whole setup will have to be dismantled before we go.

Other than a little bad karaoke, the others were a bit more sedate.

So. That was `the ordinary stuff.' Did I mention how we were on an alien planet?

We had extraterrestrials on the team partying with us, and the tall blue natives. The Na'vi, speckled hairless feline things, danced traditional dances to our music around the bonfire. Clad only in loincloths, you could see glowing speckles flashing up and down their bare bodies and tails as they moved, bring back old memories I wished to keep buried.

The weirdest thing of all were the Christmas carols.

One of our newhires, clad in a polo and khakis, had a little songbook open in his hands, showing a green four armed space creature a sheet of music notes.

I don't know, there's just something unsettling about watching a bald thing with tusks croaking out The First Noel. The only thing it got right was the chorus, and the words didn't flow naturally. The poor girl probably couldn't do any better, but I found it a little creepy.

When the song ended, I approached them, furrowing my brow in concern. This was supposed to be a non-threatening workplace. "What happened, did he force you into a conversion?"

The green creature put an arm around the young man's back. "He never forces me into anything, do you, honey?"

Her companion blushed and shook his head. "She's never done anything she didn't want to do."

"I am not intimidated by him, if this is what you are implying. Mark Sully is generally shy and awkward in social situations, so when he resists and makes a stand for something, I pay attention."

I stared. I'd been keeping tabs on the guy for awhile, but this particular arena of his life had escaped my attention. "This I've got to hear."

The boy swallowed. "You really want me to tell you? It might take awhile."

I shrugged. "I still think you brainwashed her somehow. I'm not sure I'll be able to sleep until I know how this happened."

Mark grinned. "You asked for it."

He began his narrative, which is as follows:

[0000]

MARK

[0000]

A little background. You may find my last name familiar. I'm the son of Jake Sully. He had me before leaving for this place, to live among the Na'vi.

It all seemed kind of noble, going on a space mission to improve life on planet earth and all that, especially with the sympathy points of him being wheelchair bound, but the fact of the matter remains that he left mom with no one but her and her folks providing financial support.

Still, I survived, graduated high school, got into the wonderful realm of telephone collections, all without dad's help.

At any rate, I've always had a problem with sleepwalking. I felt almost positive that I'd become possessed by a demon or something. I'd go to sleep and wake up outside in the woods at the end of my block, clad only in a crude breechcloth I'd somehow crafted from bath towels, rags, or other stuff I'd found around the house. I'd discovered I'd been fashioning lean-to's, built fires, crafted spears, bows and arrows. I'd kill deer and people's cats, roasting them on a fire, and have no recollection of doing it.

I've always had the problem, even as a small child. But now, as I neared my twenty fourth birthday, it kept getting worse.

I went to the doctors about it, but the medicine didn't do anything.

When my whole adventure with your company began, I'd spent another night sleepwalking. I pretty much got one hour of actual rest, with a short, relatively normal dream about being late for school and not being able to find the building. My alarm clock interrupted me before I could find a way out of the train yard.

I rolled out of bed feeling dead tired. A shower snapped me out of it a little, but I still felt rough.

I went through my normal morning routine, drove off to work.

I parked my sedan in the deserted parking lot, folded the seat down, and tried to squeeze in a cat nap before my shift. A heavy rain beat a monotonous rhythm on the roof, doing its tapdance on my windows. From time to time, gusts of wind periodically slapped extra rain against the glass, whistling thin notes through the seals and cracks in the door frames. On my rearview, my name badge danced a slight jig to the music of the purring engine.

I closed my eyes a few minutes, sat up and checked the dashboard clock. Only eight minutes had passed, and I felt no more rested than before.

As I rolled back to a reclining position, I thought I saw a figure in a black suit crossing the pavement, but when I turned my head, I could see nothing but a wide empty stretch of pavement leading to a solitary yellow car.

I decided the figure had been a product of my sleep problem, since I had only managed four hours of sleep, actually less with the bathroom break in the middle. I would have liked to alleviate the problem, but I couldn't sleep too good in that uncomfortable car seat. I shut my eyes anyway.

Hearing an engine, I sat back up, but saw nobody. Someone had only driven past the lot.

I closed my eyes a few minutes, sat up and checked the dashboard clock. Only eight minutes had passed, and I was no more rested than before.

I had a mini-dream about mom and dad being blue cat people. We celebrated Thanksgiving in a jungle.

An old blue skinned female creature dressed in skins stabbed me with a shard of bone, cackling as she wiggled it around until blood poured out of it like a small fountain.

I fought her away and tried to run, but she kept coming after me with the bone, laughing hysterically. My parents didn't try to stop her. Instead they just told me to stop being mean to grandma Mo'at.

When you're sleep deprived, your mind plays tricks on you.

I figured that's probably why my dashboard appeared to be made out of leathery multicolored animal skin, and blue figures pointed spears through the openings that used to be my windows.

I blinked, and found myself sprawled in the back seat of my car, staring at the dome.

Noting how everything seemed slanted, I sat up and found myself parked halfway up a grass and concrete island. Thank God my unconscious mind knew how to put it in park!

I pulled the car back into a normal spot, and, against my better judgment, attempted to nap again. It wasn't like I had anything else to do for twenty minutes.

I dreamed I was on a mountain face somewhere, stalking after a big red leathery thing with a shovel shaped beak.

It was windy, and the cold air chilled my bare skin, rumpling the narrow strip of leather that served to cover my intimate areas.

My blue hands gripped the rocks as I silently crept after Shovel Beak.

Seeing its anxious movements, I jumped, chasing after the thing with all the speed I could muster.

Bounding from rock to rock, I boldly ignored the frightening heights that lay below the jagged rocks, obsessed with an all consuming drive to stick my hair tentacles in the creature's brain, and ride him into the sky.

The creature neared, its glistening red-purple wings mere inches away.

I leapt.

I missed.

As the beast spread its wings, taking into the air, I fell screaming off the side of the cliff.

I awoke, shivering and damp, on the tar and gravel tiles, ice cold droplets pelting my naked skin.

No shirt. No pants. My white cotton briefs felt like a sodden washcloth.

I leaned over a wall and saw that I had somehow made it onto the roof of my office. In the distance, through the sheets of pounding water moisture, I could see the familiar shape of other offices, the empty weed choked field beyond the parking lot, the freeway, and, in the far distance, the rolling Kansas hillsides with a dilapidated old barn.

How did I get up here? I thought. And how would I get down?

Not only that, how would I get down without getting fired or arrested?

Then I remembered the ladder.

Inside, near the entrance of our warehouse-like call center, there stood a white metal ladder going into the ceiling. I always heard it went to the roof, but I never had an excuse to go up there.

Problem: It had a padlock on its lid.

I didn't let this deter me, for it was either the ladder or jumping off the side. I doubted the fall would be pleasant.

A few feet from an air conditioner unit, I found the ladder rungs, climbing down.

As expected, I encountered a lid, but for some strange reason it came open when I pulled on the handle, and I could enter my office's dry interior.

In my underwear.

I figured I would set off an alarm, maybe end up on some TV show about funny burglaries caught on tape.

I had been sleepwalking again, my unconscious body playing Indians in the buff.

I don't know how I got out of there without setting off an alarm, but somehow I blacked out and ended up in my car. I would have chalked it all up to a crazy dream, but I was still sopping wet, ninety percent unclothed, and I had scratches on my body, with something like brick dust under my fingernails.

I had no towels, because you don't normally plan for things like this to happen, so I had no choice but to make my clothes soggy by putting them back on. My heater could only do so much.

At least I had my clothes. Sometimes I'd wake up and have a walk before I found where they'd been `misplaced.'

I napped for a moment.

5:42. To my sleep deprived eyes, even the building seemed to be the wrong color.

I sat up, assessing the night's damage in the mirror. Red hair plastered to my head, bloodshot blue eyes surrounded by freckled bags, waterlogged clothes. Yeah, I'm ready for work, I thought.

I slung my ID badge over my toothpaste splattered green polo.

The rain wouldn't make me look any worse. I locked up, marching into the storm.

No lightning. The sky above the gray cinder block of an office looked like a Hollywood matte painting, unnaturally bright and colorful in contrast to its shadowy surroundings.

I marched up to the entrance, swiping my name badge across the security scanner.

I pulled the door handle, but it didn't open. With my shirt a damp rag and my hair matted down over my eyes, I scanned my badge and tried it again, and my shift as about to start.

It seemed the manager hadn't arrived to unlock the building yet...or had forgotten to do so.

I gave the door another tug, frowned at the downpour blowing through the parking lot.

I got back in my car, waited about ten minutes, tried the door again. The sensor light failed to turn green.

A familiar rusty gray pickup sped past, parking a few spaces down from me.

The lights on the truck went dark and a man with white hair and a button down shirt stepped out, marching up to the door. Harry, I thought. Not the manager.

"Door won't open?" he yelled.

I shrugged, peering in the nearby windows.

Nobody occupied the visible desks, and venetian blinds and cubicles hid the other areas.

I pressed my face against the glass for a few more minutes, but didn't see anyone. Well, for a moment I thought I did, but I guess it was just me going crackers.

Harry knocked on the glass. "Hello!"

A moment later, a fat bearded figure in a Star Trek shirt stepped out of the bathroom. Tom the IT guy/call control monitor.

Tom sometimes opens the door for us. Sometimes. I watched him anxiously as he waddled down a row of desks, oblivious to my presence as usual.

We knocked, but he ignored us.

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the ground in front of me, and I spotted a bloody rabbit carcass in the grass.

Upon closer examination, I found that it had been half eaten...and the teeth marks looked disturbingly...human.

It was then that I remembered the bloodstains on my car seats.

I'd just eaten a wild rabbit...raw.

I frowned. A wild bunny can have all sorts of diseases, maybe even worms, and I'd just chowed down like it didn't matter.

I rubbed my stomach. I didn't feel sick. I could only hope I remained that way.

Beep. Click. I turned and saw Harry entering the building.

It seemed he'd been too busy getting out of the rain to notice my strange eating habits.

Pelted by rain, I raced to the door.

I knocked. It still didn't open.

Jolene, a short, unfriendly woman with straight blonde hair pushed the door open. She didn't say a word to me, she only grumpily let me in.

Once through the cramped little security corridor, I set about my morning preparations, like shoving my lunch in a refrigerator crammed with plastic bags of unidentifiable substances, on top of a cheesecake tray that had occupied that same shelf for more than three weeks. The food had better attendance than the employees.

As I warmed up my first cup of coffee of the day, I noticed Harry sipping a steaming beverage as he stared out our giant glass windows. The rain pounded the glass in thick shadowy sheets that made it difficult to see past the street lamps in the parking lot.

"Boy, it's really coming down. Reminds me of that one time I went canoeing on Lake Michigan. I was out in the middle and I took on so much water I thought I'd have to swim to shore!"

I just said "huh" and drank my coffee. I absently stared at the tropical birds and flowers on his shirt.

No mention of the dead rabbit. I took this as a good omen.

"The fish went crazy, I tell you what. The way they all rose to the surface like they did, you would have thought someone dropped a stick of dynamite down there."

I rolled my eyes, marching into the call center.

I was practically the only one there. At six in the morning, the neatly arranged ranks of empty chairs and desks reminded me of one of those movies where some giant weapon or a disease causes all of humanity to disappear. Kind of creepy.

As usual, Tom the I.T. guy sat at his computer, monitoring call volume statistics and idling in a teleconference.

Tom was overweight, his stomach sagging over his pants, but he took care of himself, his hair and beard well groomed. He was a strange animal. For a brusque, silent type, the fact that he wore Star Wars shirts and occasionally showed up dressed in chain mail, like King Arthur on the way to a battle, made him kind of cool. If he wanted to do live action fantasy roleplaying on the weekends, more power to him.

I attempted communication, but he only responded with a grunt.

So, not one hundred percent cool.

Still not quite fully awake, I wandered into one of the supervisors' cubicles.

The first thing I saw was a video recording of a large humanoid blue colored pig with dreadlocks, wandering around in a jungle.

I thought it was a movie, but then, as I squinted at the film, I noticed the distinct lack of action, music, or dramatic pacing, like I were watching live camera footage.

Bravo, I thought. Must be the DVD extras.

I listened to the audio on a pair of headphones near the monitor and heard a guy talking about a Na'vi.

And then I saw something I wished I hadn't.

In the background of the video, I could see another blue figure, this one carving a message on the side of a concrete wall. This is what it said:

My name is Mark Sully..

I am from Earth.

I do not belong here.

Please help me.

I stared at the screen in horror. What the hell was going on?

Was all that stuff I dreamed really real? Surely not! I didn't even remember that dream.

For starters, how would I even get to that place? Why did that blue thing think it was me?

But how could I explain the message?

I wrote it all off as an elaborate practical joke.

The video wasn't the only strange thing. Next to the computer, I found a device that didn't look like it belonged to any earthly computer. A strange tiny black triangular object marked with a curving scythe shaped symbol and a red flashing light. It looked like a prop from a science fiction movie. I stepped further inside the cubicle, reaching out to pick up the device.

"Hey!" a voice shouted. "What are you doing! Get out of there!"

I looked down and saw the top of a shiny bald head. It belonged to a squatty dwarf in button up dragon print shirt. Vincent.

Vincent was one of my favorite managers, simply because he was a dwarf. Just seeing him waddle around the office made me grin. I wanted to pick him up. I always had thought it a shame that I wasn't on his team.

Of course, grinning isn't the best thing to do when someone's pissed off at you. "Sorry," I stammered, fighting down the smile. "I..."

I jerked my hand back, stepping away from the desk.

"Shoo!" the man said, waving me away.

I quickly backed off, watching him jump up and throw his stomach over the desk, unplugging something from the computer. He stuck that something into his pocket.

His face turned a bright red when he noticed I hadn't moved. "Shouldn't you be logged into the phones already!"

"Right!" I retreated from the area.

This has to be a prank, I thought. Even that...toy on his desk. I wasn't sure why they went through all the trouble to trick me, of all people, but I figured they were making a TV show or something, and I was to be the butt of the joke.

I logged into the phone and computer, took calls for two hours.

"Why my phone off. Why my bill so high? I promise to pay you next Saturday. I didn't know my account was charged off against my credit." This is what the conversations consisted of.

The rows behind me filled up with coworkers. I noticed a coffee brown faced man in glasses, white shirt and tie, logging into the phone next to me.

Curtis.

Curtis was cool, but the way he talked to customers, I really couldn't figure out why they hadn't fired him. We're supposed to be getting payments for phone reactivations, not talking about sports, or preaching, or political scandals, but nobody said anything to him about it.

This time it was some sort of discussion about sexual misconduct and the NFL. I rolled my eyes and pretended I wasn't hearing all that.

I took my break, got a cup of coffee, returned to the phone.

Misapplied payment dispute. An argument about late fees. One payment. Lots of promises for payments.

The calls got suspended for training, so I flipped through a pointless instruction module designed that had no bearing on my job, then laid my head on my desk as I waited for everyone else to finish.

"Rough night?" said a voice behind me.

I groggily sat up, turning my chair to face the speaker. "I had insomnia."

"Take some Benadril," said a whiny sounding fat guy in the row behind me. "That works pretty good."

"Me, I take a shot of whiskey like this." Harry held up a couple pinched together fingers. "Mix it with orange juice or hot milk, and it puts me right out."

"What I do is get some hot juice or tea," said a voice to my right. "Take a cup of that and watch the Weather Channel for a few minutes, and I have no problem sleeping."

My two cubicle mates then got into a discussion about news stories. The topic changed to plans for the weekend. Harry said he got his truck fixed, and he was fishing at the lake, spurring a discussion about trophy catches.

I took my lunch and came back to find them still chewing the fat.

Suddenly a flashing light appeared on my company instant messenger.

Jolene.

"Log into meeting and see me in my office," it said.

I swallowed. What did I do wrong now?

With my stomach sinking, I set my phone to Meeting to stop the calls, then nervously crept into the office at the back of the call center.

The computer on the manager's desk displayed an image of me dangling from the roof ladder in my cotton briefs.

"Care to explain?"

I flushed red with embarrassment. "I sleepwalk. But I've been seeking treatment."

Her expression was humorless. "Do you often sleep in this building?"

"Not...if I can help it. It's an early time to get up, so I often take naps in my car before the building opens."

I sighed and rubbed my face. "I'm sorry. It's a recurring problem. I'm taking meds, but there's not a whole lot else I can do about it."

"Funny you should say `recurring.'"

I swallowed. "What, you have more security footage?"

She responded by pulling out one of her desk drawers, dropping it on the counter with a noisy rattling bang.

I stared at its contents. It looked like a year's worth of handmade faux Indian artifacts.

"I believe these belong to you."

I paled. "Are you sure all those are mine?"

Jolene shrugged. "I don't know of anyone else who would prowl around a locked building in a loincloth and play Indian until the doors open."

I pushed the drawer towards her. "You can throw that stuff away. I don't want it."

"I believe not. It's evidence."

"What. You're going to sue me? I hate to break it to you, but I don't have enough money to make it worthwhile. Unless your aim is to send me to prison."

She gave me a look like she were planning to do that very thing. "The next time you sleepwalk and damage company property, we're deducting it from your paycheck."

"Fine. Show me where to sign."

And so I signed a waiver and returned to my desk.

I noticed a strange new face in the office, an athletic looking forty year old woman with curly brown hair and narrow angular features. The woman had on a white shirt and black slacks, and carried a clipboard full of papers.

She went down the rows, notating something or another.

I asked about her in the company instant message program, but I couldn't get an answer from anyone.

After a long delay, someone said that the woman was checking computer towers. They had to know which one went to which login ID, which seemed plausible, except she seemed to be looking more at our faces than our computers.

"Who is she?" I typed.

Another long pause.

"I think her name is Grace," said a fat guy in the row behind mine. The back of his chair faced me, but I could tell it was Max by the whiny voice. "I think she's a new manager."

"Grace Augustine," someone told me in a private message.

About ten minutes later, the `training' ended, and I was back to talking to customers about their bills.

I took my last break for the day. As I was standing around the break room, I noticed the `Grace' woman retrieving a Diet Coke from a vending machine.

"Mobmik!" she said to me. "Viravo poiagutewe?"

For reasons unclear to me, I found myself blurting words in a language I didn't understand, following it up with a confused "What?"

She only laughed and walked away.

I returned to my desk, too tired to fully comprehend what had just happened.

An hour later, I wished I had fixed another cup of coffee, as my head kept drooping forward as I handled the calls, getting accused of being drunk a few times. I stood up to combat the fatigue, and I managed to make it to 2:30 without seriously botching a call.

Everything seemed fine as I marched through the now crowded office and got into my car, but when I shifted into reverse, I heard a crunch.

Shifting back into my space, I got out to check the damage.

I had just backed into a dirty black Trans Am with a license plate reading "SNAKEY." A string of little skulls the size of ping pong balls hung from the car's rearview, the skull motif carrying on through the seat and steering wheel covers.

I could see the handle of a gun poking out from beneath the passenger seat.

Uh-oh.

Not knowing who I was dealing with, I could easily imagine how this little exchange was going to play out.

Poorly.

I'd gained a huge dent in my rear bumper, but the car behind me looked no worse for wear.

I looked all around the other car, but it looked like I had only done damage to my rear fender. No noteworthy scratches, dent marks or any other glaringly obvious signs of impact.

I would have left a note, but I figured the owner would only exaggerate the repair of a tiny scratch, one that I could easily fix with a pen, to make it sound like I caved in his whole front end. I just drove home.

I lived in a white split level suburban home, a generic 1970's style Brady Bunch type thing identical to dozens of other homes on my block. Garage, a concrete stoop with an awning serving as the front porch. The paint was flaking around the garage, the railing around the front stair had rusted and broken off, and plants never fared well in our yard. The brick flower box held dirt and dead plants.

The sliding glass door on the back was stubborn, books and papers and piles of junk lay everywhere. Not bad enough for Hoarders: Buried Alive, but close.

As usual, my stepdad was out on the front lawn, practicing a karate kata. To the uninitiated, that's a dance you do at every belt level to show off your moves.

My stepdad...he came along a little later in my life, when I was already in middle school and didn't want to change my last name. He and my mom met because I got in a fight and mom didn't have the money to pay for karate school. Stepdad's a karate instructor.

Honestly, I don't enjoy karate. It's something I endure, and don't keep up with, much to Stepdad's annoyance.

I heard the ringer of his cel phone, the Mortal Kombat theme song. He picked it up from the stoop. "Action Martial arts, Jeff Packer speaking."

And then he got caught up in a long discussion about finances at the dojo. I went inside.

The interior was a mess. Mismatched furniture, clothes, trash and other odds and ends scattered all over the living room. Every time I tried to clean up, we always ended up missing a bill, the remote controls, or some other important thing, so I didn't bother as much as I used to.

I marched upstairs to my room to draw pictures of the strange monsters inhabiting my unconscious landscape, the strange blue characters, the plump friend, the cute female that despised me.

I was a bit annoyed that my drawings all tended to look like blue cat people, even when I tried to draw superheroes. My designs for sports cars, though, looked really interesting.

"Mark!" I heard Stepdad yelling a couple hours later. "Get your ass down here!"

I rushed outside and found him and my mother staring at the dent in my rear fender. "What did you do to the car?"

I explained the situation.

Seeing that the cat was already out of the bag... "Jeff, um...I was at work today, and I think I may have backed into someone's car when I was pulling out."

"Did you leave a note?"

"Well," I stammered. "No, I..."

"Hit and run is against the law, you know."

I swallowed. "The damage looks like it's all on my end."

"That's not what the court will say. It doesn't matter. You've got to at least leave a note...You got insurance, right?"

"It's all my fault," I said. "There's no point in making the rates higher. It's only cosmetic damage. It'll be fine."

"It doesn't matter. The other driver is going to look at the car, and he's going to ask questions. The longer you delay, the sooner he'll send the FBI to arrest you. You'd better leave a note pronto, and pray he won't press charges."

I shook my head. "There's no telling if he's still there. He might be working the same shift. I'll leave the note tomorrow."

"You'd better!"

He ordered me to do a hundred pushups, situps and mountain climbers.

On that note, my father grumpily marched back into the house.

My dreams tend to be elaborate. The people I meet in REM sleep have actual names, especially the blue ones.

Everybody there calls me Qaddafwu. I hang out with this chunky cat person (Na'vi) named Qurvigu, apparently my best friend, and Mikuvzil, a female I found very attractive.

The night I took my first pill, I dreamed that they tied me to a tree. I awoke in a jungle of glowing foliage, the two of them staring at me with concerned looks on their faces.

I groaned as I stared back at them. "Oh hi, guys. How's it going?"

We were both speaking a non-English language, but I could understand and speak it perfectly.

"Who are you now?" asked the female. "Qaddafwu or Mark?"

I squirmed against my restraints. "Which one will get you to untie me?"

Then I frowned. "Why did you tie me up to begin with? Did I do something wrong?"

"It's `Mark'," said Qurvigu.

"Look guys," I groaned. "I know for a fact I never did anything bad here. I never, I don't know, stabbed the neighbor's cat to death, or walked outside naked, or attacked a nurse..."

"I don't know what those words mean," Mikuvzil replied. "But when you're Qaddafwu, you're obsessed with Seqwadti and want to raise her kids, but when you're Mark, you keep following me around, flirting, staring at me when you think I'm not looking..."

I blushed. "So you tied me to this tree until I came back to you? Is that it?"

She looked...disgusted. "Not...exactly."

A bloated blue female stepped out of the bushes, batting her eyes at me.

She had been wearing a buckskin top and loincloth, but when she found me imprisoned, the clothing fell away.

"Sorry, Qaddafwu," my `best friend' told me. "It's for your own good."

I blanched. "Seriously?"

I awoke naked on the bathroom rug, which had somehow made its way to my front yard. A skinned squirrel slowly roasted on a crude spit over a dying fire. I'd also built a lean-to from yard debris.

My stepdad stood over me with his arms crossed, sighing in annoyance. "It's nice to know one of us is getting rest!"

He threw me a towel to cover myself with. "Clean this shit up before you leave for work."

With that, he stomped back into the house.