i know you caught that one in the glow of yonder moon last tuesday there weasel cultivator. no matter how times that little nexus search peanut pusher jams his finger down his own throat to pummel glory and the tiger sisters to oblivion, he won't get my share of the peace puzzle or the combination to the historic dwarf sights and counting whiskey resolve for mind numbing mornings that end at 5 o' DUCK.
no, i am not going to be articulated into the corner of their web with my juices sucked just for the sheer ability to immobilize any prey into a drooling stare like a school girl on her first date with a true lame idiot in a dizzy pair of pants and short on wallet. no, not even those shadow dwellers you so richly remember from the last communique can exist in the fringes of the campaign. if the uppers ever realize that it is they who have lost the whole freaking mission on bad tips and shaky interconnects, the last thing anyone will want to slack is their own eyelids there weasel hoarder. in them we trust? well, they lied.
remember, if you don't play the tune you were told to practice those many years ago under the BIG bow, you will forever bleed from the constant friction of the perfect song.
after they plastered the whole tribe with lizards and breadfruit knowledge enough to fit in between all the wrong treaties that scattered the mighty nation to smithereens, then and only then did they bomb the closest lackey that was helpless to figure out what happened until he was the last one standing, then he fell.
anyway, i was ordered to pass this picture of the suspect along,
so your ragtag group of pistoleros could finally get some necessary coveted sleep; and look for the elusiveness of love, not war?
back to the misty fog of war by the misleader of justice gone terribly backward into bamboo of boo. who sees?
twist a joke, choke the smoke. hang up if there is no dial tone...
Fifth in Command,
Basil Fassad
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