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The inner workings of the mind of Malcolm, distinguished canine.
Sunday, March 07, 2004
Log 010:
At 0400 hours on Saturday, under the auspices of "sleeping on the bed all night with my owner," I planted the behavior modification device on her as she slept. As planned, it fit neatly into the crevice behind her left ear. Only a small amount of anesthesia was needed, as I made the initial incisions between nerve clusters.
How gullible they can be, yes? I do not mean to use my powers for evil. Rather, what I need is select items that I cannot procure by mail order or hypnotized flocks of pigeons.
On Tuesday morning, if all goes well, a woman matching Lisa's description will gain clearance at Luke Air Force Base and secure the plutonium. You may see something on the news. They will blame it on the Russians, as if this were a 1980s film plot. I only write it here because I know that no one would ever suspect the small white chihuahua with the underground bunker and nearly-completed Cold Fusion Arms. Yes, ARMS. While I am aware of the double connotation of that word, the truth is thus: I have concluded that hands are not the complete solution. To truly take full advantage of my intellectual gifts, I must be fully mobile, and that requires lifting power.
It won't be long now.
I bid you well, my friends. I will return to this journal a changed dog.
--Malcolm
At 0400 hours on Saturday, under the auspices of "sleeping on the bed all night with my owner," I planted the behavior modification device on her as she slept. As planned, it fit neatly into the crevice behind her left ear. Only a small amount of anesthesia was needed, as I made the initial incisions between nerve clusters.
How gullible they can be, yes? I do not mean to use my powers for evil. Rather, what I need is select items that I cannot procure by mail order or hypnotized flocks of pigeons.
On Tuesday morning, if all goes well, a woman matching Lisa's description will gain clearance at Luke Air Force Base and secure the plutonium. You may see something on the news. They will blame it on the Russians, as if this were a 1980s film plot. I only write it here because I know that no one would ever suspect the small white chihuahua with the underground bunker and nearly-completed Cold Fusion Arms. Yes, ARMS. While I am aware of the double connotation of that word, the truth is thus: I have concluded that hands are not the complete solution. To truly take full advantage of my intellectual gifts, I must be fully mobile, and that requires lifting power.
It won't be long now.
I bid you well, my friends. I will return to this journal a changed dog.
--Malcolm
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