Burritos with Lindbergh

First off, I wanna apologize for the delay in this post. I gots myself so wrapped up in that there electioneering, I plumb forgot about the internet. But it looks like they still got the pipes clear and all, so I'll likely be writing more regularly. I also wants to say, now that we gots a new president, it's time for some of us to show our integrity. If'n you was one of those people who was sayin a couple of years ago that we got to support the president no matter what, just cause he's the president, it's time to live up to those words. Now we gots someone new you may not agree with, but you gots to support him because he's the president. All right, that's enough politickin on my part, it's time to continue with Alastair's story. I'm lettin him type it himself. Partly because he types faster than me, and partly because it's pretty funny to watch a squimonk type on a full keyboard.

After transversing landmines, alligators, rhinos and an angry Siberian tiger residing in a house made of waffles and bacon for some reason, I reached the door of the mansion. There, on the porch, I had a crisis of conscience. Through the trials I had just faced, my brain had developed enough that I had reached self-awareness and moral thought. I realized for the first time what Clan Platypus was doing and my part in it. With that realization, I knew that I could not work for them and, in fact, must fight them to save the world. I took the bag of meth and threw it as far as I could. Fortunately, it landed on a mine and exploded. Unfortunately, the alligators were caught in the cloud of meth dust that resulted and they began freaking out. They tried to attack the rhinos, who were having none of it. I stood there for a time watching the fight. The rhinos seemed to have the upper hand for a while, but the alligators had meth on their sides. They drove the rhinos back, right into the drifting meth cloud. That really turned the tables. By this time, all of the animals were heavily under the sway of the drug. The battle raged back and forth, but none of the combatants sustained serious injuries. After a while, the two sides ceased their fighting and wandered into the tiger's house to scrub the tile and vacuum. I paled in amazement at the power of this drug and the horrible potential that it had to rob creatures of their minds.

I kept a close eye on the animals and on the dissipating cloud of meth. I finally deemed that both were sufficiently safe for me to make my back out of the compound. Just then, I heard the door of the mansion open and a voice say "Well done, little one."

I turned quickly to see the client standing in the doorway. I both loathed and pitied him in that moment. I loathed him because he was helping spread this disease. I pitied him because he was also under the influence of Clan Platypus and would soon be nothing more than a mindless zombie. How ignorant I was. Unable to speak or write at the time, I could do nothing but stare at him. He was a tall man, apparently in his mid-forties, with dark, well coiffed hair and a triangular nose. His eyes and mouth both slanted down slightly, giving the impression he had stood up too fast for his face to keep up. As he looked at me, though, his eyes showed a great deal of compassion, and none of the glazed look that meth addicts get.

"I can see the confusion on your face," he told me, "and I assure you, I have nothing but the best intentions here. I swear to you that I am not a meth user or distributor. I am fully committed to defeating Clan Platypus. You, my small friend, are a part of that plan."

I was not sure whether to believe him, but he seemed very convincing. He turned sideways in the door, sweeping towards the interior with his arm, "Come in and all will be made clear."
I don't know why, but I decided to take a chance on this guy. I walked swiftly into the entry way and was stunned by the grandeur with which this man was surrounded. Everything was Italian marble, cut crystal and chrome. His entry hall alone was cavernous. The ceiling seemed to stretch to the firmament and was dotted here and there with lamps, giving the impression of the stars fixed in the sky. Painting after painting dotted his walls. In the front entry, I later learned, were a series of woodcuts from Milton's "Paradise Lost", the tragic beauty of which moved me in ways I hadn't known possible.

"Since you have trusted me this far, I ask you to trust me a little further," he told me. In his hand, he was holding out a small rubber cap. "I am going to put this on your head. It is designed to read your brainwaves and convert them into language. I have wired it into a series of speakers in the walls. This will serve two functions; first, we will be able to communicate very naturally; second, you will begin to learn language, which is a vital skill if you are to defeat Clan Platypus."

I nodded my assent and he placed the small cap on my head. The words came out in a rush, "Who are you? What is this place? Who am I? Why am I here? What am I? How can I trust you? What is going on here? Why? Why? Why?"

He just smiled a little, sad smile. "Let me introduce myself first. My name is Charles, Charles Lindbergh. I was born in 1902 and was the first man to cross the Atlantic ocean in an airplane. Shortly after that, my young son was kidnapped. The police never solved the crime, but I vowed to. I paid a lot of money for my information. Eventually, I found that my son had been kidnapped by Clan Platypus, though I never discovered why. I vowed to bring down their organization and get my revenge. It had the added bonus of clearing mind-numbing drugs out of the world."
My voice came from the walls, "If you were born in 1902, how are you still alive, and still so young?"

He replied, "I had grown old in my search for Clan Platypus without being able to achieve my vow. So I began to search for ways to extend life. That search led me to Hawaii. There, I met with an old man that showed me the secret of staying young. I take a special treatment every day that tastes awful but keeps me young so I can pursue my vengeance. Speaking of which, it's time for my treatment. Are you hungry?"

"Yes," I said, finding I really was.

"Then to the kitchen!" he yelled, with a dramatic flourish I thought may have been a little over the top.

"That was a little over the top," came the voice from the walls. "Dang! I will have to learn to control this thing! Dang!"

"Yes, little one," he said, "it may have been too much. I have spent many years alone. After that, people tend to get a little weird. Did you see the waffle and bacon house for the tiger out there? That's not a thing a normal person does. There are also suitcases in there. It's very strange. I don't know what I was thinking. I tried to dismantle it once, but the tiger got very angry and started stealing my butter. Ah, the kitchen!"

He began to rummage through the cupboards and the fridge, finally pulling a jar full of tiny pink things and a tub of orange sludge out of the fridge and a bag of nuts from the cupboard. He handed me the nuts and I dug in. They were sensuous and delicious. I felt transported to another world by their taste and texture. It was like a nut explosion in my mouth, a warm, salty nut explosion and it filled my mouth with salty delight. But I digress.

Lindbergh begun to pour the pink things onto some weird pressing machine. The room was filled with the stench of burning fish.

"Oh my god!" came my voice, "what is that?"

He replied, "That, my friend, is the smell of eternal youth. Retched, isn't it? This is my daily treatment; a burrito of sweet potato compote on a tortilla of pressed sea monkeys. It's horrendous, but it keeps me young." He continued to make and consume his meal as he explained the rest of the story to me.

After Lindbergh had discovered the secret to eternal youth, he faked his own death and plotted the demise of Clan Platypus. He soon learned that they had begun a genetic engineering project to create intelligent animal couriers. So he hired a team of behavioral psychologists to determine how to accentuate intelligence. They came up with a obstacle course that would require many types of thought. They theorized that, if an animal were to develop intelligence through the solution of these problems, they would reach the stage of moral judgement and would therefore be willing to defect. Then, he posed as a large meth dealer. It took years to get into the good graces of Clan Platypus, but once he did, he made orders for millions of dollars worth of meth, explaining the difficulties of delivery.

"You are proof that their theories are right," he told me, grimacing at his burrito. "You are the first of the squimonk to attain self-realization. Your moral compass held true, as well. Now you have a decision to make. Do you want to be freed to seek your fortune in the world or do you want to stay here with me and train to pull down your creators?"

Before I knew it, the voice was resounding through all of the speakers in the house. "FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!" the cacophony grew ever louder until there was a pop, and then silence.
"I believe you have blown the speakers," he told me. "Fear not, that just demonstrates passion. I will repair them before you know it. For now, though, we will begin filling you with information."
He took me to a small room full of computers and explained to me that all of the information in the world was mine. He placed a different cap on my head, saying, "this will transmit information directly to your brain. You have a near infinite capacity for knowledge, which was necessary to overcome my obstacles. All you need do now is think. Anything you have questions about will be answered. Follow your natural curiosity and the information will be delivered to you. I must now retire to a bath of salt water and electric eels, my little friend. In the morning, we will begin planning in earnest."

And so begun my days with Charles Lindbergh.