Well. I have been absent, as you, Dear Mythical Reader, should be aware.
And where have I been?
In jail.
That's where.
Well, not quite jail. But rather as a "guest" of The Apparatus in one of their temporal gulags.
It seems they had gotten wind of my collusion with the Descendants of The Ancient Eye-Nye-Habs (The Anti-Snailians) and they asked me just that,
No, point blank, not bank: "Are you in collusion with the Despicable Eye-Nye Rebels?" (Their terminology, not mine.)
And when I denied it, when I pled ignorance (an easy thing for me to do), they placed me in a yard, in an outdoor holding cell much like what these photos depict:
(Take note of the black vultures that arrived daily to the gulag-work-camp-holding-cell!)
(Also note the Orange Cones of Madness in the background--those ubiquitous items that islanders are so fond of!)
This compound was named--for completely inexplicable reasons to me--Boots's Garden.
It was not a garden and their were no boots to be had. I was barefoot the majority of the time, from dusk to dawn and dawn to dusk.
But what was there were rocks. Yes, rocks.
Not just any rocks, but caged rocks. Yes, rocks in cages:
I was put in charge of watching the caged rocks, sun-up to sundown, to ascertain that none of the rocks had escaped.
Of course they could not, just as I could not.
Those poor rocks . . .
And, yes, at least I am not as old as that rock--I think.
When I was finally released, back to my life of poverty, wandering the streets and eating a bland diet, I was told that "should" I come across any of the Despicable Eye-Nye Rebels, that I should report back to The Apparatus.
I promised that I would.
So, it seems, I have become a double agent.
Though my true agency is only towards myself and my escape from Soybean Island.
That is all I have to report at this time--at great danger to myself, I must remind you.
Goodbye from Soybean Island
