Dear Planet Earth,
It was the first day in a while that Perry hasn’t come by to dispense fatherly advice or spread the Good Word about the mole people. He’s been trying to interpret passages for me from A History of the Inheritors, the ancient manifesto of our underground overlords. It’s all bullshit, and I’ve told him as much since he started his temptation to bring me to the dark side and join him so that we may rule the galaxy as father and son.
I did have another awkward conversation with my gruffy gaoler to make up for Perry’s absence. He dropped off my usual gruel at the usual time, and I asked him, “What’s your name?”
He looked through the window suspiciously.
“It seems important,” I said. “You feed me everyday, recharge my laptop, clean my bedpan. But I don’t even know what to call you.”
His gaze eased, perhaps understanding the bigger conflict on my mind.
“Well, nice to meet you, Ryan.”
I briefly considered offering him my hand. He was about to go, but I stopped him with another question.
“You have any kids, Ryan?”
“Look, pal, this ain’t the Marriott here. You’re not a guest and I’m not your friend. Any issues you got with The Big Guy are between you and him.”
He stormed off after that, leaving me with a half-full bedpan and dreams of a paternal relationship I never knew I wanted.