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skip to the latest enstallment: MISSING MOUSE CHAPTER #7 from the forthcoming Apocalypse Array.

March 7, 2079

Dear Dee,

I thought I’d add myself to the list of men you put away who send you letters from prison. Oh, wait, Danny’s dead. Hmmm, maybe I’m just a pinch hitter then.

The trial went well didn’t you think? It was long and drawn out, but, well, I’m here now. It’s what you wanted, right? Too bad they couldn’t pin murder on me, but, well, I think you should be happy with the life-sentence.

And, in case you were worried, things are simply lovely here. Time has only been kind to Sing-Sing. They have a very progressive religious community of Muslims. Reading the History of Malcolm X to catch-up. Yet somehow, I don’t think that’s going to be quite enough to completely ingratiate myself with the boyz in the crew. Something about being a "towel head" I didn’t quite catch before I got hauled into solitary for bad behavior.

And, speaking of Malcolm X, who says incarceration doesn’t have its perks? I mean, here I am learning to read English. Because of my "special situation" the guards have provided me with printeds of the books I want to read. So, no hand-helds with a nice, convenient built-in translation program. And, I’ve already read the one copy of the Koran they had here in Arabic about sixteen times. Merciful Allah, but that book is weird. I’d forgotten how poetic and repetitive it is. Makes my head hurt. Although, I’ve been having really kicking dreams about djinni.

Oh, and be impressed. This letter is actually being handwritten. They won’t even give me the recording program they give every other prisoner. It’s like they expect me to mcgyver some kind of space age transporter system out of a couple of transistors and some snot. Yeah, that’s likely.

And what a great rep to have! I mean, all the boyz are totally impressed that I’m a tech-head. That gives me so much street cred. Yeah, I tell you, nobody wants to mess with a pretty, little, five foot three programmer in for tech-crimes. I hardly ever get called wussy-boy.

It’s lovely here, just lovely.

Well, that’s all for now. My hand is staring to cramp up.

Kisses,

Mouse

March 14, 2079

Dee,

Greetings from Sing-Sing! I’d send you a postcard but they don’t seem to have any pictures of our lovely accommodations in the prison gift shoppe. Shame, really. I think they’d be a hit.

After a small incident in the lunchroom, I’ve been able to convince the staff here that I’m an info-junkie. So, they’ve graciously allowed me access to printeds of the major newsfeeds. I have to say I’m surprised at you, Dee. Underground? Alleged connections to Hassidic terrorists? Rumors of an out-of-wedlock pregnancy? I’m shocked I tell you, just shocked! Keep up this kind of behavior and you’re going to end up my roomie. Oh wait, we’re not co-ed. Darn. Well, it was a pleasant thought.

But, frankly, I’m kind of hurt. I always thought I was the only man in your life. I mean, we share underwear intel. I thought that meant something. No other woman knows about my plaid boxers. Now, I find out some other man might be aware of your white, size six, binki cuts? Hurt, I’m telling you, cut right to the quick.

The other bummer is, of course, being on the run as you are, you’re probably not getting my carefully printed mail. That kind of robs me of the tiny bit of pleasure I was having writing these sarcastic little notes to you. I might have to try to send word to friends. Maybe they can boost these from your box and post them somewhere on the LINK. I mean, I just can’t stand the thought that you’re not listening.

Oh, and I’ve clipped the articles about you. Since I’m being discouraged from making a scrapbook out of them—I mean whatever! It’s creative, you’d think that would help with my rehabilitation--I’m going to send them to you. You could construct something nice. Get one of those leather bound things or something.

Well, time for breakfast. See you. Oops, forgot about that whole life-sentence thing, so I mean, I’ll be writing later.

Yours truly,

--Mouse.

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