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Your friend Behr is feeling very groggy today. It may be on account of these pills they keep making me take before slamming my head down on the bed and putting electricity through it. Still I am hopeful that either Agent Mulder or my friend Chopper will come to the rescue.

Dr. Eichmann came into my room with the two large black men in white uniforms. He had some kind of doll with him. It was a lifesize rubber woman doll and he presented it to me. This is not something I would prefer to receive and asked if instead I could go home. The black men held me down hard on the bed while Dr. Eichmann hit me over and over again with a cricket bat and once he stopped, he asked me, "Would you like me to tell you how to use the mannequin?" When I didn't respond immediately, he had one of the men grab my leg and rip it clean off at the knee, which had suffered devastating structural damage when a lesson was taught to me yesterday.

I agreed and he made me say, "Yes, Dr. Eichmann, I will be compliant," before he let the men stop punching me in the face with closed fists. He then told me he felt that I would benefit from using the mannequin to "satisfy my sexual urgings" (shrink talk). He showed me that the mouth, vagina, and asshole were fully functioning "orafices designed to please." I looked at him with shock and dismay. This was unnatural and I don't believe there was any reason for him to present me with this. I didn't want to get hit any longer, not out of pussification but due to having suffered too much bodily damage to go on much longer. And so, I went along with it and thanked him for the doll and hoped he would leave.

"Why don't you begin? We will watch," Dr. Eichmann said as the men stepped back, folded their arms, and grinned broadly.

I did not know how to handle this type of situation. It is not in any of the great playbooks of the Anals of the National Football League or in any corporate training seminar (useful for businessmen - aka the master race of businessmen). Even being part of a master race, which ALL businessmen and NO ONE else is a part of, I was not able to handle the situation. I began to become unglued.

What dignity I had left was surrendered when Dr. Eichmann directed me to pick up the doll, lift up my dressing gown, and place my penis into the mouth of the rubber woman. This was not something I wanted to do, especially since I had a ball rupture yesterday that ripped through my severely infected and scarred scrotum and now a greenish blue pus is leaking out of that general area CEASELESSLY. It looks a lot like if you put honeydew melon (after it had gone bad in the refrigerator) in the trash with coffee grounds and a diaper (full) and left it out in the yard at the height of summer for an entire month right in the sun at all times and then opened it up to look at it. That is what is coming out of me, and that doesn't even start with what is leaking out of what remains of my torn off (at the knee) left leg.

"In the mouth, Mr. Goats," continued to instruct Dr. Eichmann, who was holding off his henchmen who looked hungry to damage me physically and mentally even more than they already had.

"Put your goddamned prick in the fucking dolly's mouth you piece of shit!" one of the men barked at me, loudly and suddenly.

As a result, I jolted upright, pulled myself up on my torn off left leg, the stump still bleeding profusely even though I found an electrical cord to tie it off with (that seems to have had little effect unlike in the movies). My flaccid organ was pushed into the doll's contorted (Internet kiddie term) mouth, always in a circle, open and willing. I began weeping at this point and could not stop.

"Back and forth, Mr. Goats. Work that penis back and forth in the mannequin's mouth. Good. Good."

At that point, whether it was the pills or the situation itself, I passed out and woke up at some point later on. It was dark out. I leaned over to turn on the light next to the bed but jumped when a voice in the darkness came flying at me. Agent Mulder turned on the light. He was sitting there in his suit with his legs cross, notebook on his lap, and he looked very serious.

"Are you ready to continue our conversation, Mr. Goats?"

"Will you get me out of here? If you do, I'll tell you anything you need to know," I cried (in a manly way) as I struggled to maintain consciousness with the blood loss from my leg now excessive for over forty-eight hours.

"Will you give me proof of the existence of extra-terrestrial life? Intelligent, sentient life?"

"Whatever you want to know I'll tell you. I'm a businessman."

"A businessman? What kind of business are you in, Mr. Goats?"

"I dabble and go where the money is."

"Ah, the great paper chase then."

"I don't know what that means."

"Why don't I get a wheelchair and we can wheel you out to my car."

He got the wheelchair okay and got me into it. We were rolling out of the room when he grabbed the sexualized mannequin and put it under his arm. I told him I wouldn't be needing that item, but he insisted and ended up putting it in the trunk of his car. Then he stopped. There was a growling from in the bushes near the car and I saw an old familiar face. It was the hairless ass weasel (recurring character) checking in. I worried he would attack me, not being able to defend myself with my torn off leg, with serious physical damage, and being all doped up on pills. He didn't. Instead, the hairless ass weasel just growled and sneered as we got into Agent Mulder's car.

"Friend of yours?" Agent Mulder asked me.

"Don't want to talk about it," I groaned (manly way) as I pulled myself out of the wheelchair and onto the ground, from where I crawled to Agent Mulder's car screaming, "I want to do it MYSELF!"

He put the doll in the trunk and got behind the wheel. "Where are we going, Mr. Goats?"

"We are going to talk to the elves. You'll get a kick out of them."

"Just let me know if you want to stop to spend some time with your doll."

Later... 2:40 AM...

Waking up and going to the toilet was tough. I don't know if you use the toilet or not, but please don't flush 10-15 times as someone recently claimed. Because I have a left leg that was torn off at the knee and discarded as carrion for wolves and so forth, I had to crawl and I shit myself, leaving a long and nasty trail into the motel bathroom.

Furious about this, I took the table in the room and broke off one of the legs. It was about the right length, so I jammed it with incredible force into my exposed thigh bone, just jamming it right in there like I meant it. Then I found what non-scientific people call the "screwlink" and I screwed the table leg to my exposed and bloody thigh bone. Then I tied up the meat with some twine I bought when I crawled to the Home Depot leaving a trail of all kinds of nasty bodily fluids behind me. The bleeding stopped as the meat naturally fused with the table leg and I am able to amble about now. "Ligaments" were somehow involved, I am told by voices in my head.

Now, to sleep.

God bless.

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