Fall From Grace

Sweet and beautiful lord baby Jesus, please forgive me for my unholy and unspeakable sin. I would sooner lie prostrate upon a bed of over-sized, fire-breathing doomants from the third moon of the planet Gryfolax while watching "You've Got Mail" for an eternity of righteous supplication than venture again into the sinful world of black magic. Curse my unforgivable hubris! The very thought that I, a mere mortal, dared to demand the power of the gods now fills me with existential suffering. Listen well, dear readers, and learn from my mistakes, for I have been afflicted with a most malignant malady: I am ceaselessly stalked by a horde of demonic cats! The cats are everywhere, my poor, sweet, innocent friends. They dwell on every street, in every alley, around every corner. They haunt me in my travels, at home, and even in my horrible dreams. ALAS! Even the sweet oblivion of sleep provides no defense!(As you can see from the pictures above, my devilish curse has at least made me a *handsome* devil, which I suppose is nice.)

My trek to obtain divine power was my fall from grace. The journey was filled with absolute terror. Not everything I witnessed is describable in human words, but I will attempt to illuminate this path of darkness for the sake of posterity. As you recall,
my unholy ritual required the mastery of Tunisian cooking, drumming, and dance. I excelled quickly; too quickly. Like Icarus, my wax wings of mortality brought me too close to the shining and unknowable face of Helios! If only I too had met my end in the merciful waters of the Mediterranean! Now, like Lucifer, I fall beneath the Earth into an eternity of torment. (CATS! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!)

My path began with cooking. Sadly, Tunisian cooking includes no cat meat, or my problem would have already been solved. Instead, it is as hot as the fires of damnation that lick my soul! How fitting that I would create such a spicy dish! I ordered my FREAKY henchmen to fetch me the most mystical "pasta", a key component to many Tunisian meals. After ample application of harisa, a vital catalyst for spicy Tunisian cooking magic, this portion of the ritual was finished with ease. What did not come easily, however, was the after-effect of the cooking ritual. To cement its magic, we were forced to dwell for many hours upon the altar of the porcelain god. Henchmen 5, 18, and 37 did not survive this process. CURSES! There are so many bodies in my wake! If only the clarion notes of poor Harold's lyre were here to comfort me now! (Slave wenches, working hard. Good for them.)

The next challenge, darbuka (drums), proved to be insult to injury. A diminutive and infinitely wise Tunisian darbuka master graced the elite members of our organization with our presence. Although his stature evoked master Yoda, his demeanor invoked master Pai Mei. I was able to follow his rhythms like the soulful beat-master that I am, but my comrades were not as blessed in the ways of drummery. The darbuka is a fickle instrument of mystical power. If we were to err even slightly, we may have accidentally invoked the wrong ritual with disastrous results. It is for this reason that I do not fault our drum master for chastising us for mistakes, but the plucking of Jonathan's eye was quite simply beyond the line, even for a hardened criminal mastermind such as myself. Needless to say, our morale and collective depth perception had been diminished by this encounter. It was at this point that I began to question my mad quest, but I had come too far and sacrificed too much to turn back now. I must confess that my lust for power continued to drive me forward as well, but nothing could prepare me for the final test: DANCING. (Not quite our master. Close, but not quite.)

Dancing. Oh merciful Lord, dancing. Why did the last ritual have to be dancing? This portion of my sick journey was almost as terrible as the curse that now haunts me. Our instructor was as beautiful as she was deadly; a dancing damsel of death! At first the ritual proceeded simply enough. My desire to become a cyborg has caused me to move like a robot, and as we all know, robots are excellent dancers. My unique and amazing skills brought such joy to our dancing mistress, that she literally fell on the ground laughing! My friends, I assure you, my hips did not lie. It was not long, however, until the ritual reached its apex. Our instructor had clearly cast a terrible spell upon our female companions and Dan that caused them to shake their hips with ferocious tenacity! I was surrounded by their unholy circle of dancing death, and for the first time since my youth, I felt true fear. Our instructor clearly sensed how close I was to obtaining demonic powers, and intentionally spoiled the crucial moments of the ritual with this act of betrayal. It is for this reason that now my only power is to be haunted by cats in every moment of existence.

(You were hoping for a picture, weren't you? Better luck next time.)

I am truly a criminal of the most foul degree. First I commit crimes against America by fleeing her golden shores, then I commit crimes against Humanity with the creation of my nefarious empire, and now I have committed a crime against God, the Almighty! Only now have I begun to question the error of my ways, yet sadly my repentance is not enough in the eyes of the law of Man and God alike. I must flee once more, now to the South of this country I have called home for the past few weeks. I hear that a wise and ancient religious sect known as the "Jedi" reside there. I shall seek their council immediately. If you do not receive another dispatch, then you will know that I have been justly slain on this journey. Know that I loved each and every one of you from the bottom of my cursed, blackened heart!On an unrelated side note, I have also seen Michel Foucault's ex-boyfriend no less than five times now. In case you were wondering, he has a huge gray and black beard, and always wears the same woven red and white hoodie. No joke. At least I am blessed in that regard.

Twists and Turns

I can hear their voices very clearly now: "Nathan, you ridiculous bastard," the voices say, "who do you think you are, smoking your pipe like that in some foreign cafe, writing as if you are some sort of tortured genius that has yet to be discovered by the world!" To these voices I reply, "you are very right to mock me, I am in no way tortured, and I do believe that the world already knows precisely how magnificent I am!"

As you may be able to tell by my town, my tryst with Tunisia is going splendidly. In spite of the loss of our young spritely ward Harold, my plot for restoring my nefarious empire is proceeding without delay. After posing as a tourist in a hotel at the beautiful sidi bou said, I befriended the owner who agreed to allow me to use his home as a temporary headquarters. Harold was our translator, so due to his untimely demise I can only assume that my host's constant yelling and pointing out of the door to his house is a cry of encouragement for me to go forth into the world and reclaim my former glory! I shall become so mighty that America will come begging on her knees for me to return!

My first major excursion brought me to the ancient city of Carthage, where I searched for forgotten secrets of unfathomable power, long lost to the dusty annals of antiquity. It was a perilous journey, but with the help of some new found comrades, not even the mystical and arcane traps of a once mighty civilization could stop me! After I translated the runes of the lost language my quaint companions insisted was "Arabic", I discovered that a local merchant was selling artifacts of great power. One in particular granted me the power of invisibility, all for the low price of 30 dinars! What fool would try to sell this relic as a keychain for such a measly price?! I have clearly refined my bartering skills enough to proceed to the Medina Souq in search of greater fortune. (Me, being invisible. Can you see me? Of course not!)

I must confess that the market provided me with an even greater challenge. The entire region is built like a massive labyrinth: truly fitting for a great Mediterranean city. At every corner, merchants instantly detected my greatness and implored me to grace their shops with my presence. I devoted my full attention to the magnificent architecture in search of ancient clues in the style of epic and timeless novels of Dan Brown. Although I was in full control of my surroundings at every moment, it was because of my intense symboligizing that, to the untrained eye, it would appear that I was hopelessly lost and unable to function. I assure you, however, that this was not the case. Although I was not able to find any object worthy of purchase on my first trip, I noticed a pattern that may change the course of my journey and indeed the course of all history!

There are three objects described in the lost books of the bible which I studied during my brief tenure as a boy-genius professor at Harvard. These objects are drums, food, and revealing dresses used in fertility dances. These symbols were clearly situated on a map of the Medina in the shape of a triangle. The word "Triangle" spelled backwards is "Elgnairt", which starts with the letter "E". From here on, my description becomes very technical and academic, so pay close attention: If you turn the letter "E" on its side, it kind of looks like the letter "M". Can you see where this is headed? The word "Magic" starts with the letter M! If I can harness the powers of Tunisian drumming, cooking and dance, I will be able to gain magical powers! It is all clearly spelled out in the symbologies! My power will become so great, that even the dark and mystical "Kyle Anne" will be put to shame. I will begin my new quest as soon as possible, and keep you updated on the results!It's okay if you can't see the symbols. I'm a professional.

Arrival at Last

I fear that you will have to continue to forgive me for my tardiness, my loyal supporters. The scoundrel who took us through the so-called "Kessel Run" was less reputable than I thought. His smuggling ship was a rusty bucket of bolts that snailed across the Atlantic over the course of a week. I was forced to establish my domicile in a rancid cargo container, where I had to do horrible, deprived, unspeakable things in order to survive. I shall spare the women, children, and beardless lads with weak constitutions the details of my trip, for it includes horrors too great to put to print. Needless to say, our young ward Harold did not survive the trip. Now that our linguistic expert is somewhere 500 miles off of the cost of the bahamas, our fledgling group of ne'er-do-wells is in dire straights, my friends. We have been forced to join forces with the scruffy smuggler Jonathan who took us here. He is running from agents of the East India Company, and was more than happy to join forces with us. We must trust him out of necessity, in spite of his responsibility for poor young Harold's death.