Hialeah

The city of Hialeah, Fl., is cold this time of year. Cold like McDougal's black soul. The Presidential campaign is in ruins after the big man ate the mayor of Coldwater. We've holed up here high in the Florida mountains and McDougal has slipped into a coma. His closest confidants are calling it hibernation. They say he does this once or twice per century. I've never seen anything like it. His breathing and heart rate have slowed to a nearly immeasurable rate. His body temperature is about 55 degrees Fahrenheit, and his eyes are open ... a cold, blank stare. I feel like the big man is judging me, and I frequently wish I weren't shackled wrist-to-ankle to him. But it was one of his last wishes before he went under, and who am I to disagree. Bobby, a former intern, brought me this laptop and some Jack in the Box. He comes by every few days. He has a gimp leg and a crooked nose, but a good heart, and he's nimble like a cat. On Sunday he brough BLT's and some DVD's of Dr. Who that he downloaded from some BBC newsgroup. I wish I could change these pants, change my life, change my mind. But what's done is done. I'll just have to ride this one out. Bobby says there are no mountains in Florida. I have no idea where I am. He says there's been a cover up. He won't tell me who McDougal ate. Says it wasn't a mayor. Maybe a governor. I have a .38 with one bullet. I know now what I have to do.