First a ping,

then the tracert......

a little scritchy noise as the log printer stretched an accordioned

tongue

to

fall a little more onto the false tile floor.

Disturbed from the greasy, heavy sleep at my desk I wearily peeked from one eye at the fresh ink, the tale whispered by the logfile that lives in the place between here and the outside here. Shrugging off the encounter as an accidental brush with some befuddling dolt that just read their first 'Cool Networking Powertools in Win98' column,

I set the phone to forward all calls back to the automated answer greeting, rested my head on a copy of 'Getting Results with Office 97' (what better to soak the drool) and drifted

back to sleep.

But that's when they got in

If I grab directly at the memories, they immediately escape like shadows dancing in the corner of my eye. Must be some sort of trick used to dampen the thoughts,

or maybe just my own mind protecting me from the sheer terror of the experiences of the last few...don't know how long

What I do remember

is that the cavity probes are excrutiating. I wake up after the encounters feeling like a spent balloon, every inch of every sinew crying out a report of the abuse suffered in overstretching. The tools they use seem bio-mechanical. Pulsating, slimy blades and hooks far too large to enter the body, with carapace-like serrations tearing and scooping at flesh from several angles at once. I still don't understand what they want, but I do know that they won't stop...until all have the same marks and scars that I bear now. I tell you this to warn you. You know what has to be done..............................

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