To the Ladies and Gentlemen that were my wonderful hosts in the series of addresses I was kept at from 9 November 2009 to 4 December 2009:
My memory came back. It was the same evening after I found myself slumped next to the BMW*. A friend I was staying with noted how skinny I was and asked why I was eating so much quinoa. He asked if I'd quit drinking and smoking.
At first, it was only confusion. I felt like I didn't understand the words he was using. I liked quinoa and raw organics. I'd lost some weight, but--he brought out part of a leftover T-bone. I was disgusted at first, but something primeval gained ground and overpowered it. I caught the scent of the meat, and then I had some kind of evil synesthesia flashback. The scent of body odor, Nag Champa, Sage and Steamed Tofu hit me like a hundredweight of bricks in every color and tonal frequency.
Everything. I remembered all of it. I almost flew into a murderous rage, but thankfully by buddy had some cough syrup to calm me down. So, yeah. Depriving me of red meat was probably an awful idea, because that deprivation did something horribly wrong to me. Right now I'm perched over a beef quarter just taking bites off of whatever looks good.
Don't tell me about vomit. I know. I was doing that and shitting pretty much every time I took a sip of milk or a bite of mammal flesh. Thanks for feeding me your tasteless macrobiotic slop until my body entirely forgot about meat, milk and alcohol.
The taste-void of that grassy nothingness was enough to make me WANT cancer to halt me twenty or thirty years early. It would have been a blessing if I'd died of heart failure or pussy-food overexposure or something in the first week I was with you wannabe-weathermen fucks, but that doesn't matter anymore. I'm out now.
Your reprogram didn't go so well. It broke pretty easily. You pitiful bastards must have been reading from the abridged version of The Anarchist's Cookbook, because I was eating raw meat, drinking bourbon, and breathing hot menthol again in no time. Only difference now is...I'm waiting for you.
I took the last two months in hiding to situate myself again. I've got new offices now. I live in mine. I'm still working on a new staff--but a few candidates have nearly passed their tests. Our screening process is rigorous for obvious reasons.
As for me, don't make the mistake of trying to take me with less than eight bodies. Oh no, not because I carry weapons. I don't need mace or a stun gun. I'm on some kind of passive bloodlust kick. I'm fine normally, but if you try to black-sack me again, I will motherfucking EAT your flesh. No, that's not some kind of threat to make you think I'm crazy. That's a shout out to my man Peter Singer. I'm no speciesist. I will MOTHERFUCKING EAT YOUR FLESH...in self-defense, of course. With green onions.