On Terrorism and Being Held Hostage

Dear Mr. OR,

I have not written in nearly a month. This has primarily been due to the involvement of the Beast in very specific ways. It would seam that the Beast has been biding its time trying to lull me into a false sense of security and, by and large, it worked. On the evening of May 8th I was on my way home from a particularly draining day of box staring. I staggered into my house mumbling the usual hello to my darling bride and made my way to my writing table. Once properly seated I stared long and hard at my writing desk and the paper and pencil I've used to write to you on so many occasions but I could not for the life of me come up with anything to say.

You see the night before while I lie sleeping the Beast had wandered in and stolen my muse from my bedside table where I leave it at night while I'm sleeping. The next morning I woke up later than usual and in the ensuing rush simply did not notice that my muse was missing. Now that I was sitting at my desk I realized it was not there and so I went to look for it. I spent hours searching every nook and cranny and finally in desperation I headed for the basement thinking that perhaps it had been dragged down to the wash inside the pocket of my previously worn slacks. And that is precisely where I found it.

My muse sat cowering in the middle of the dirty laundry with The Beast standing over it. The Beast looking very smug held in its hand what appeared to be a very large handgun. As I watched The Beasts tiny little hands wobbled and it appeared as thought it might drop the weapon; however, upon my advance it quickly regained its control and held me at bay by threat of force. My advance halted it turned the weapon back towards my muse and began making what I can only assume was a very long list of demands. Unfortunately much of this was in Beastish and I was only able to pick out the few words here and there where the Beast would use a broken form of English.

The stand off went for days, both day and night, as the Beast spoke in firm sounding tones about something which required the frequent use of the letter L and included the word Milk. After which the Beast questioned me at length about Cheese and Ball. Finally nearly in tears from the stress of the situation the Beast broke down and spoke quiet sadly about its Mother whose name is apparently Lie-Lou. Finally after nearly a week with none of us having any sleep the Beast gave up and I regained my muse. However, In exchange for its peaceful return my muse required two weeks vacation to recover from its harrowing and traumatic experience.

And so for that time I have on a regular basis been going to my writing desk and staring longingly at my paper and pencil and writing nothing. And now with a great sense of relief I send you this communication. I remain always;

Respectfully Yours,

The Lumpy