Last summer I set out to save the world. My benevolent plan was discovered, however, and I was detained by angry extraterrestrials who handled me most viciously. I was transported to their space station up in the sky. After eight months of daily Hydrotorture which rendered me temporarily unable to walk, I was placed in strict solitary confinement with only a pad of paper and pen to write with. With these utensils, I began writing a letter on the third day of my residence in my present cell, addressed to whomever was willing, should anyone be able to, read it:

My cell is three feet wide by three feet long and coated in silver. I survive only on a diet of Grease, a glutinous substance which the aliens nourish me via syringe. Help me. My cell block number is 333. I believe the location of said cell block is aboard Seven's Space Station which lies hidden behind the moon. And the moon, would you believe it, is actually a space station itself. During my Hydrotorture sessions I was informed through Visor that the moon is inhabited by three space witches called the Gorftowers who have devoted themselves to finding Futura Minor, the galactic priestess who will liberate us all from the Beak's sinister grip...

I stopped there. Who on Earth would understand or believe what I was writing about? I realized that I must start from the beginning. There were certain revelations that I received while dining at the Golden Dragon back in the day that motivated me to would-be heroism and unfortunately led me to my eventual and current fate, but none of these insights compared to the information that I was given during my imprisonment by the Beaks. Yes, that is what these cruel aliens are known as outside of our planet. Beaks. Their gnarled faces drawn forward into sharp toothy points with black, beady eyes arranged haphazardly above their scum-filled nostrils...

Oh, how I long for freedom from this hellish place ruled by these horrible creatures!

And why did they impart such information to me alongside said torture? I will now declare that, coupled alongside my unjust imprisonment, the information that was thrust on me is a source of greater pain and suffering than the infernal water I was near drowned in so many times could ever account for.

Portland, 2017 (compiled from earlier notes)