Shmulag 17

Dark times. Dark and weird.

The Man has again delivered me unto the nefarious Dr. Fingerer. Only this time, strangely enough, no experiments. No tubes, no apparati, no fingers down the throat, no probes up the unmentionable. Just... containment.

Three days now I've been boxed up -- a clear view of the laboratory and the chamber of horrors, but I feel more like the observer than the observed this time. Nevertheless, a cage is a cage, and I remain endlessly alert, ready to make my break, ready to slit the first exposed throat that comes along.

And yet, there is something benign about this place this time around. Kind words, good food — and I'm dealing mainly with Fingerer's toadies, who I admit have been rather pleasant. No sign of the madman himself. Why?

There must be darker forces at work here. Possibly I am the control for some twisted experiment currently happening to another fellow? I am the unaltered subject? A disturbing thought.

Here's the other thing. Twice a day, I am being... combed. Combed? What the hell? What possible purpose can there be to imprisonment coupled with involuntary semidaily grooming? If my presentability is of such critical import, to whom am I to be presented?

One thing about it, though — I caught a glimpse of a mirror during yesteday's afternoon coiffiture, and damn, I look good.