they do something personally offensive like poison me, knock me out, and then put a microphone where my gold tooth used to be.
or worse, a tracking device.
to make things easier for them i did the unspeakable: i got a license plate with the three top secret letters on it
so you will never have problems finding me in traffic.
the other night i was having headaches, which is rare for me. i had taken a nap and still the headaches continued so i knew they had some sort of transmitter in my head
and after some investigation i popped a cap and there it was, a devious little device meant to record and track my every move.
i txted them: who do you think you are? facebook?!?
her name is amber, she lives in a shoe.
legs that are longer, and eyes made of blue.
they played dumb which isnt hard for them which makes them dangerouser. with all the toys they have youd think theyd figure out by now that some former agents shouldnt be messed with
and not everyone wants to be part of their juvenile little gang. no matter how much money there is there. no matter how much “fun” there is.
some of us wanna walk the straight and narrow.
no fancy clothes, no fancy cars, no invisible helicopters
no machine guns with audio bullets that dont hurt but make you fall down and puke.
some of us feel like thats like playing video games with the cheater code. like learning math by using the answers in the back.
like trading arms for hostages. like packing the courts. like using a designated hitter.
some of us believe that we are on this merry go round once and we will be judged one day not only by how many points we scored but also how many assists we dished and how stylish we were at
something the xbi knows far too much about these days.