The simple fact that they're making me write a blog to make amends should tell you enough about the ослы I work with. There's some Russian for ya. More or less. Dad never taught me much of it. He was always busy drinking. Turned out well for him when he crashed his Ford, didn't it?
Yes, I managed to sneak some illegal (at least up here) substances on board. No, it's not deadly contraband. Yes, I suppose I shouldn't have done it. No, I don't think I deserve this.
At least there's a good signal. There would have to be, or else I'd be stuck doing something horrible, like - oh, wait, there's fucking nothing to do in this place. Even the single deck of cards we had were lost long ago. It's not easy to lose something, anything, either, in as cramped a place as we're in, especially not something that is actually fifty-two things prone to floating and with bright red backs. My only remnant of those cards is the rubber band, and even that's stretched to its limit. I take that back - it just broke. Right before I let fly, too. Bonesaw hates it when you throw things at her, and hates it even more when you're flinging those things out of a rubber band.
Well, I suppose Iron Man will check up on me every few days. Hope this is sufficient, bastard.
Red October, over and out.
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