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May 29, 2005

Volume 1, Issue 17

Everybody has keys. But some keys, you have no idea where they go to. You just can't remember where it goes.

So, where does that "mystery key" go?

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Michele: 2600

Dear King Frederic,

I still can’t define the monster. A giant duck? A mutant dragon? Its stiff motions belied its swiftness and I often backed away, especially when the thing would bang its teeth together in anger.

I eventually slew the monster and retrieved the mysterious key from its clenches, but not before it laid its teeth into my back.

I killed many bats as I navigated the maze to the final door. You were right, your Majesty. The key fit.

The chalice is at long last yours, King. But I have paid my life for it.

Game over, indeed.

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Laurence - Note

Podcast of this storyNigel tapped Middle C again.

Still nothing.

He lifted the green piano's lid and checked the striker and the wire. Everything worked fine.

But he didn't hear anything when he hit Middle C.

B played. D played. Every other note played.

But not Middle C.

Nigel blew out the candelabra and hit Middle C again.

Of course it wasn't that, he thought. That would have been silly.

Nigel tried another piano. Middle C worked just fine.

He went back to the green piano, lifted the lid, and plucked Middle C.

Perfectly tuned.

He hit the key again.

Nothing at all.

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Andy: Also Untitled, Because It's Late

On the fourteenth floor of the Beijing World Trade Center, Specialist Timmons crouched in the dark. "I'm at the computer," he said. "I need the pass code."

"I'll check with the shop," said Field Agent Bruner.

Bruner radioed Hall who rang Givens who rang Miller who paged Falk.

"Got it?" asked Miller.

"Got it," said Falk. "The moon rises over Bohai Bay."

Miller rang Givens who rang Hall who radioed Bruner who informed Timmons.

Timmons approached the terminal and keyed: "Too soon surprises come what may."

Sitting in prison, he never appreciated the irony of Chinese whispers being his undoing.


From the Comments: Tanya

He whistled cheerfully as he walked the last block to the house. His first house. He had worked so hard to afford this beautful place.

He reached the back door and fumbled through the keys. Front door, two keys. Side door. Here we go. Two back door keys. The skeleton key for the old lock worked quickly, but the deadbolt stuck a little. Finally. He opened the door and stepped in, smelling the cleanness.

As he crossed the kitchen, he reached into his back pocket for the stiletto. Not his house anymore, of course. They really should've changed the locks.