I write this to you in an American airport which I will not identify, about to embark on a trip to Germany to free Mr. Blick, the plastic man, where he will help me fight the East Mangoustanis and, in doing so, become human again.
I have now landed in Berlin, where Mr. Blick, in his plasticine form, currently resides.
I’m now travelling on a taxi to his residence, an old, uninhabited house where he sits in the attic, undisturbed by anything, save for his memories. I knock on the door. I’m trepidatious, as it has been a while since I was active in the world of culinary espionage and secret agentry. I then quickly realize that no one lives in the house, Blick is unable to move, and everyone is staring at me quite oddly. I flash a badge I made out of a grocery store friend’s card and some markers, which reads, in falsely authoritative text, “Agent of the Federal Bureau of Foreign Culinary Relations,” hoping that the bystanders won’t notice that it isn’t real. I run around to the back of the house and climb through an open window.
The house smells musty and old. There is an eviction notice on the counter. At least, I think it is. I’m pretty sure it reads, “empty house now goose cheese.” But then again, my German isn’t too good.
I open a hatch and climb up into the attic. After looking around a bit, I see the box. It resembles the one sent to me by Mr. Blick, but old, and faded. Once I open the crumbling container, I see an equally old and faded yellow capsule, with a face painted on the front.
“Mr. Blick?” I ask.
The capsule doesn’t respond.
“Mr. Blick–if this is you, wake up, and…I don’t know, roll around.”
I wait for a moment for the words to register. Still no response.
“Mr Blick! Er…Ich Bin Ein Berliner! Frau Blucher! Alveterzane!”
I continue to rattle out whatever German phrases I know. Eventually, the bean moves. It rolls around in its box, drawing something in the dust.
“Hello, Arren,” it reads.
“Excellent,” I exclaim. I pick up Mr. Blick and put him in my pocket. I can tell that he protests by his violent shaking, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. Just as I climb down the ladder into the house, I hear sirens coming up the street. Apparently, it’s illegal to trespass into an uninhabited house with a fake badge and start belting out broken German. Who would have thought?
I hop out the same window I used to enter and make for the fence in the back garden. I run through several yards before I find my way onto a street.
I find a patch of dirt in front of a bench and tell Blick what the plan is. We are to go to the airport and fly to West Mangoustan. Once there, I will contact an old soldier who is named, for the purpose of this account, Jeeves–not his real name. Jeeves will help get us across the border into East Mangoustan. I put Blick down in the dirt and tell him to write something out.
He rolls around for a bit until he spells out, “Flag down a taxi. I want revenge.”
We head to the airport, where I board a flight to West Mangoustan. I have my eye out for any East Mangoustanis, German property crimes policemen, or FBFCR agents. I suppose I didn’t mention before that the FBFCR has negotiated a tenuous peace with East Mangoustan, and they probably do not want this peace to end by me sneaking into the capital and invading a top secret lab. I know it is the right thing to do, though. The tyranny of East Mangoustan must end.
Expect more soon,