Machiavel Malkavian
Nov 15th, 2003, 09:45:32 AM
I am an alcoholic.
No wait, I'm not. Oh well, it worked as a nice start.
My name is Machiavel. I am 41, round about. I am human, or so I have been told. I live here, but I used to live somewhere else. Corellia used to be my home, but it got boring there, so I left. Plus, all of the hired muscle that found its way into my office with the aim of beating me up was not good.
My name is Machiavel. I have not been writing here for long. This diary is really not working for me. They say it's supposed to help relieve pent up stress, but I don't feel relieved. Maybe I need the bathroom? Even if I did need the bathroom there's no way they'd let my get up. My right leg is not working correctly. I am meant to be resting, and 'healing'.
My name is Machiavel. As I sit here, the governments of the world are becoming alerted to my presence here. It's not long before someone arrives, gets past the fairly lapsed hospital security and pops a bolt into my head. If this does not happen, which I will be surprised if it doesn’t; I will rot away here in this stink hole for the next 2 months, with my only company being the guy with the weak bladder just four foot away from me - who, just for reference, pees on the floor.
My name is Machiavel. You know what? I'm getting really sick of writing that down. It seemed atmospheric at the start but now it's just getting old, don't you agree? Getting old like staying in this hospital. Every minute seems like an hour. If it's not my compatriot urinating on my bed sheets then it's jitter girl screaming and wailing as she tries to escape her bed in the next room. This whole place is messed up. If I was a paranoid man, I'd swear down that this is a mental asylum.
Actually, I am a paranoid man; therefore this is a mental asylum. On Coruscant, where they send criminals.
The man to my left was once a mafia crime lord running a drug racket on the downtown side of Corellia city. His syndicate was one of the largest in the 5 planet galaxy, and monopolized everything there. Jitter girl was, and still is, a mentally deranged psychopath with compulsive killing tendencies. She does not like people. They won't let her out, so everyday she gets more and more mentally unstable, and wants more and more to murder every single person she can see.
I'm lucky I'm behind a wall, or else I think I'd be dead now.
I used to be a writer, until someone decided that they didn’t like me. They didn’t like my right leg either, so they broke that and had me sectioned on the grounds that I was endangering other people. The government, perhaps, but not the public at large. I had the guts to have an opinion of my own, under the imperialistic rule, and was shipped away to join the funny farm. It didn’t occur to the Jedi, obviously, when they regained control of the hub world to check on their patients and find out of they actually were mad, but hey, you can’t have everything.
Can you? I can have my pre-packed cardboard meal and eat it! - Thanks to the nurse who just came in and loosened the straps holding my arms down. I gave up on puzzling over why they feel the need to restrain me. Speaking of the nurse, she doesn’t look very happy. In fact, she’s shocked – heck, I might go so far as to say terrified. Someone, unfortunately, has a gun pointed against her head…
It looks like my savior has finally come. Albeit, 21 years late.
No wait, I'm not. Oh well, it worked as a nice start.
My name is Machiavel. I am 41, round about. I am human, or so I have been told. I live here, but I used to live somewhere else. Corellia used to be my home, but it got boring there, so I left. Plus, all of the hired muscle that found its way into my office with the aim of beating me up was not good.
My name is Machiavel. I have not been writing here for long. This diary is really not working for me. They say it's supposed to help relieve pent up stress, but I don't feel relieved. Maybe I need the bathroom? Even if I did need the bathroom there's no way they'd let my get up. My right leg is not working correctly. I am meant to be resting, and 'healing'.
My name is Machiavel. As I sit here, the governments of the world are becoming alerted to my presence here. It's not long before someone arrives, gets past the fairly lapsed hospital security and pops a bolt into my head. If this does not happen, which I will be surprised if it doesn’t; I will rot away here in this stink hole for the next 2 months, with my only company being the guy with the weak bladder just four foot away from me - who, just for reference, pees on the floor.
My name is Machiavel. You know what? I'm getting really sick of writing that down. It seemed atmospheric at the start but now it's just getting old, don't you agree? Getting old like staying in this hospital. Every minute seems like an hour. If it's not my compatriot urinating on my bed sheets then it's jitter girl screaming and wailing as she tries to escape her bed in the next room. This whole place is messed up. If I was a paranoid man, I'd swear down that this is a mental asylum.
Actually, I am a paranoid man; therefore this is a mental asylum. On Coruscant, where they send criminals.
The man to my left was once a mafia crime lord running a drug racket on the downtown side of Corellia city. His syndicate was one of the largest in the 5 planet galaxy, and monopolized everything there. Jitter girl was, and still is, a mentally deranged psychopath with compulsive killing tendencies. She does not like people. They won't let her out, so everyday she gets more and more mentally unstable, and wants more and more to murder every single person she can see.
I'm lucky I'm behind a wall, or else I think I'd be dead now.
I used to be a writer, until someone decided that they didn’t like me. They didn’t like my right leg either, so they broke that and had me sectioned on the grounds that I was endangering other people. The government, perhaps, but not the public at large. I had the guts to have an opinion of my own, under the imperialistic rule, and was shipped away to join the funny farm. It didn’t occur to the Jedi, obviously, when they regained control of the hub world to check on their patients and find out of they actually were mad, but hey, you can’t have everything.
Can you? I can have my pre-packed cardboard meal and eat it! - Thanks to the nurse who just came in and loosened the straps holding my arms down. I gave up on puzzling over why they feel the need to restrain me. Speaking of the nurse, she doesn’t look very happy. In fact, she’s shocked – heck, I might go so far as to say terrified. Someone, unfortunately, has a gun pointed against her head…
It looks like my savior has finally come. Albeit, 21 years late.