From humble beginnings

On this day I pause to commemorate a one-year milestone for these memoirs (I am not one for nostalgic reflection, but I do believe in respectful observation of historical detail). As many a seasoned capo now fortifies his position, and many an up-and-coming scrapper makes his bones on the street, I trust both find themselves bolstered by the wisdom imparted herein.

Permit me if you will the indulgence of reaching deep into my archives to share an ancient tale from a darker, murkier time — a chaotic maelstrom of anarchy and upheaval, in which a young idealist was first set upon the long and bloody path to destiny:

20 JUNE 1995 - Deus ex machina

Trouble. Mother is not in this box. Nor is the rest of my squad. Harris, McDonald, Esteban, Cahill... all missing. It's only me and... oh, for crying out loud. They've put me in here with the moron. The striped pretty-boy with the mind of a pebble. No one trusts this guy. All he's done so far is hog the tit and suck up to management. He's not going to be much help here.

So where are we? I can't smell the hay or the bovine muck anymore — we're in some stinky kind of machine. I sense that we're in motion, and moving fast. The roar of doom is all around us. Can't see out of this cursed box. Where's Cahill when I need him? He's good with boxes. This idiot here with me is pretty lanky — I'll bet he could at least steal a look at where we're heading. Unfortunately, he's just sitting there sucking on a blanket. I'm in real trouble.

Our escort detail consists of three people. The Pleasant Smiling Lady is here with us, peering down into our cardboard prison, cooing at the dunce (she obviously prefers beauty to brains). Can't see into the cockpit, but I detect the voices of the Shrill Blonde and her cagey cohort, Slim Spectacles. NOT to be trusted, that one.

Slim is running this show, of that I'm sure. I caught him eyeballing us last night, just after McDonald and I had finalized our plans for a stealth incursion into the mouse field. All of a sudden there's Slim, looking us over, looking ME over. Come to think of it, the Shrill Blonde was there too, flirting with the moron. Now look at us — boxed up together and hurtling to our doom. So, it all becomes clear: Mr. Spectacles works for the mice.

Hang on now, the roaring of this stygian conveyance has stopped. We've landed in some ghastly place: hard and cold, dark and sooty, awash in the nightmarish grinding of machinery and the foul stench of sulfur. So, the mice have arranged to have me deported to Hell, with ignorance incarnate for my traveling companion.

I won't forget this, Slim. We have unfinished business, and if I ever get out of this box, I will square these scales — with my dying breath, if necessary. Count on it.