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Very Clever, Mister Blond.
By MolokoBot
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Since childhood they've said I was clever and, beyond clever, immesurably Intelligent. My test scores popped each thermometer in it's turn, or at least that's what Mrs Stubby, the school psychologist implied. Yet, my inevitable triumph of the will seems indefinitely postponed.

Confined as I am now, I must extract from you a vow of adamantine discretion; consider this unilateral admonition your nondisclosure agreement.

The circumstances to which I'm lately reduced would be humiliating if I thought they were my final context. It was blow enough to be undone by she who was, in retrospect, merely clever, who seduced and cruelly abandoned me. The trisexual tart! But for her betrayal, this would all be bearable.

Yet I will not surrender.

You see, I've laid a trap for the Crackistani spies, foreign agents of the Governments who fear my powers, who torment me through the pasteboard walls of this motel with their coughing synchronized to my thoughts and actions. Each time The Final Solution to my predicament begins to well up within me they cough, or make some bumping noise, or laugh, or play their insipid musical diskettes, or place upon their hotplate some malodourous concoction they claim, when questioned obliquely, is food. I think you can see how this interrupts the coalescence of my intricate thoughts.

But this I could overcome if it were not for the Landlord at my door at every promising hiatus in these neighborly torments. I know the Landlord to be a Ziontologist, and that he makes use of his Ziontology connections to track my movements about town, to log my comings and goings, and to deploy various technological harassments for maximum psychological and disruptive effect. His encrypted knocking pattern is insidious enough, but, when he presses the buzzer to let himself into the building complex, a sound contrived for maximum Pavlovian efficacy sears my sensorium like the twisting of a knife.

I think you can see how distracting (to understate my case) I find this. 

But the doorbell is nothing compared to the fusebox.

Both the Crackistani agents and the Landlord will, at moments coordinated to maximize damage, furtively unscrew the fuses from the circuit box in the hallway, near the resonant wooden stairs that ascend from the street to this floor. The timings of these power outages always occur precisely as I am about to save some critical computer file, or upload to certain servers software I've revised to do my bidding, or submit to various forums broadsides against, biographical information about, and photographs of my tormentors that will unleash against them an army of censure, harassment and outrage.

I may yet have the last laugh though, as I've crafted a deterrent, a booby trap of sorts, to regain those critical seconds I need: along the wooden floorboards beneath the fusebox I've scattered a slurry of broken glass, crankcase oil and ordure which should keep them at bay, or at least give them food for thought.

The fools! They don't know who they're dealing with.
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