HUNTER

Darling, I forgot to tell you of this man in Oklahoma whom I worked with in trying to save the Indians. His name was Mr. Rick W. Bisher and his passcode to everything was HUNTER and I probably needn't say more as the name says it all does it not?

He kept a giant fish tank in his office that simply stunk and had masses of women to help him fight his battles. One was named Joan (she fed the fish) and she was an only child whose mother couldn't understand the burden Joan carried in having two children rather than one. Helena,(whose sister is a stripper)scanned Mr. Bisher's documents all the while trying to repair her marriage by giving her husband a second chance and Jean who's part Indian became a grandmother much sooner than she found socially acceptable, but adored the new baby and Sydney (perhaps from Australia), who I never did figure out what she and Jean did, but Sydney's married to a man in the American military and seemed quite proud of her husband's stunning looks in uniform, though I'm quite sure her name really was Sheldie.

Anyhow darling, there were even more women down the hall, too many to name, but they all were in service fo the great HUNTER. Of course, I ran into problems, as I just didn't seem to fit, as their stories were so solid and mine, well you know me, they simply could not understand how my story was so varied and hard to pin down.

Personally, I was just thankful Joan showed everyday to feed the fish as there was no way in hell I was taking on that thankless job.

Mr. Bisher, being a trial lawyer, I found rather odd, as he seemed to lack the skill of one on one communication. I had the damndest time ever understanding him. Because he was so awful at speaking he insisted I emailed him my every thought. So he could decipher me on his own, I suppose. Darling, you know how truly tragic emailing can be, as things get lost in translation. So, I'm not certain he ever got ME.

Anyhow, that's how I came to find his passcode, as all his communication is
TOP SECRET.

And, I felt fortunate to meet this extremely wise Indian woman who'd married a German and dispensed all kinds of good solid advice everytime I found myself in a spot. Such things as:
"You gotta be shittin me?"
"Well, that ain't right."
"He ain't right, Jacqueline."

She had such the good sense about her ability to see right from wrong from my perspective that I wanted to bring her home.

But, as I told you earlier, darling, it wasn't the Indians who needed saving, as I found them splendid and sharp as a tack with great entreupenership abilities; certainly much more fascinating than apprenticaces on Mr. Trump's television show.

I just never could quite figure who HUNTER was under his passcode. I hope he's nothing with the CIA, as that little entaglement with Andrea and the Penis Song nearly put me in hospital. Even though I'm bloody intrigued to see what's the latest with Andrea in Spain.

-Jacqueline