Due to recent advances in the field of international espionage, many of us are now privy to clandestine communications ordinarily reserved for those with a need to know, a strong desire to know it, and the knowledge to make sense of whatever it is we're about to know. Since I fit in only one of those categories, I was a bit surprised when I received an envelope containing three handwritten notes, all signed by someone called Redacted the Jackal.
The name on the outside of the envelope appeared to have been written in lipstick, which was smeared but for three letters: J, P, and A. I believe the envelope was forwarded to me in error, since I, too, have no permanent address.
Using every tool in my disposal, I have come up with nothing but a vague feeling of malaise, which I attribute to the bacteria and their disconcerting aroma. I leave it to you, dear reader, to decrypt these mysterious messages, if you're able.
Went out in search of Saint Bernard (a Lassie's eyes and an open mouth) among the quintessential penthouse crowd, but lost him in a bank of dropsy-curvy waves of gain. Warmed myself at the hearth of a lowly hunter before setting out again, this time without discounting the spatula or the braking action of tics and koans in the boneyard. Sir, this is no ordinary goosechase.
In this remote paradise the view is lost on the warning factions, who often break radio silence (a sergeant in garland is never transparent) with a purposed multifrequency scrawl designed to divert attention while they board up the train station. Sir, this is no ordinary island.
Since initiating contact six months ago, I remain fixed in my position that subject exhibits extraordinary skill in avoiding my gaze, the gaze of the local constabulary, and the gazes of those who do so only out of spite. No wingding programmer on the backslider's Web, he continues to practice his darts of perception, routinely nailing hammerheads cruising at 100 megabits per second, on the Nile, with cervix intact. Sir, this is no ordinary hacker.