Convictions

Three days deep inside McDougal's desert compound, the hallucinations have not abated. If anything, they've grown steadily worse.

I was awakened this morning by my dead grandmother and Burl Ives. They wanted money. Money which I, of course, don't have. McDougal doesn't allow "filthy lucre" on his property, and all transactions are handled using a bodily-fluid barter system.

I tried to explain this to them, but the pair had grown violent, and I became fearful for my life and well-being, until I realized the entire conversation had been between me and two three-foot-long talking skinks.

I've lost all track of time in this underground fortress. No sign of McDougal in two weeks now.

A member of his staff said that he was on a working vacation in Kuala Lampur, then laughed hysterically for close to seven minutes straight.

I am told I am not a prisoner here, but have on three occasions been prohibited from leaving the compound. I'm in the guest wing of McDougal's palatial desert estate, which has come to feel more like a prison than a hotel.

The meals are well prepared and served in a massive dining hall, but I eat alone -- which only adds to my sense of imprisonment and despair. Also, I am fairly certain they are loading the mashed potatoes with near toxic levels of salt peter, as I've lost all interest in the concubine assigned to me upon arrival.

I was summoned here in the middle of the night on Saturday. Awakened from a deep whiskey-induced slumber in my London flat by two jack-booted thugs, brandishing chrome revolvers, and a recorded message from McDougal. The message was brief, cryptic, and ominous, and I knew I had no choice but to go with them.

The four-line message simply said,

Revolution is upon us.
The army of change is not staffed proxies, but with the
souls of thinking men.
Those who turn blind eyes will eventually lose the power of sight
altogether.
Act now and secure your destiny.

I was flown by private hovercraft from London to the compound, where I expected to be greeted by an army of rabid communist soldiers. Instead, I am alone, and McDougal is nowhere to be found.

The silence is eerie, and the air so thin that at times I can hardly breathe.

I am treated well by the staff, but can't shake this unmistakable sense that I am being fattened for the kill.

And I'm now sure that McDougal is here. Waiting ... silently watching.

And I am fearful, not of death, but that if I die here today that my life will have been lived in vain. All those hours watching Fox News and eating processed foods in a leatherette barcolounger, while my brethren were scattered to the four corners of the globe, fighting for independence. And McDougal, in his infinite wisdom, has called me on it.

I shall stand bravely in the face of my inevitable death and regret that I had not one life to give to the cause.

Oh wait, McDougal's just arrived.

He's dressed in desert fatigues, and carrying a machete, a dead sparrow, a case of PBR, and an autographed picture of Lee Iacoca.

He wants me to take off my shoes.