
Well, Script Three is late. And it's this guy's fault.
Now, normally, as per our unanimously-agreed-upon arrangement, the writer who is late with the script will be sock-beaten, then taken out to sea and keel-hauled, then buried up to his head in wet sand, then dug up and kicked in the nuts, before finally being burned as a witch.
(This arrangement doesn't apply to Ben, as Ben won Immunity during the Arm-Wrestling, Speed-Calculus, and Snuff Sudoku rounds.)
So usually at this time we'd be throwing a drugged and cross-dressed (Eben's idea) Adam into a trunk on our way to the Sock-Beating Place. (Kinkos.) But, frankly, I don't want to tangle with this little guy. The reason the picture is blurry? It's because his atomic matter actually vibrates at a slightly higher frequency than ours does. Two minutes after he was born he called me a "slightly boorish but nonetheless pleasant simpleton". In ancient Phoenician. He also suggested he might have developed, in utero, an advanced algorithm for ensuring that every Washington Redskins play-call is successful. He implied he had the margin of error down to negative six. I still don't understand that.
We'll give Adam a short grace period. This will give Eben more time for lingerie-shopping.
-- Jables The Younger










