Dem bones is not a corporeal person. The benevolent dictator of E2 is actually just a puppet, chanelling the spirit of Alexander the Great. Hence he calls himself dem bones, he's been dead for millennia. The day-to-day operation of E2 is dictated to the "bones" we know and love via his ouija board mouse pad.

Next week, we'll learn about how team jet-poop is really working for the trilateral comission, and Dman was actually a reincarnation of Atilla the Hun.
I am beginning to suspect that I am the only real E2 user, and that the whole thing has been contrived and maintained by an individual or small cabal for my benefit. But what is your motive? You have obviously done your homework, but I cannot begin to ascertain the purpose of this massive effort. Is it just a game, or is it something sinister?

I'm sure all the clues I need to figure this out are in E2 nodes. But maybe what I've found so far isn't evidence of any conspiracy. Maybe it's all just coincidence. I will have to proceed cautiously.

Pretty sneaky, dem bones. I thought for a little while that the text of your write-up contained some hidden message. I could have spent all day trying to interpret your rantings. But then I began to see a pattern in the ID numbers of the nodes I was browsing. Clearly the message is encoded in those numbers somehow. And I think you've hidden the decryption key in the ID numbers of the hard links of your write-up. Clever, but not clever enough. Do you feel me breathing down your neck now?

They built it into the walls, I saw it on television. Late night drive-thru told me on the sly. There it was, just for a moment, perfectly clear. All of the things I could see looked different. I read it between the lines. We talked it out.

We talked it through, dropping pearls like popcorn, spilling over with greasy subtext and salty segues. Hidden meanings.

          Mistaken identities.

              Anagrams, switched at birth.

I noticed he was wearing pistols, a bulge around his left hip. Extra clips. Brass knuckles and ceramic silencers. He had papers. He had orders. I had been out of touch for too long - the game had evolved. I was behind the times. Out of the loop. A day late and a dollar short.

There's a knocking sound in the hallway. Information pirates dressed as janitors cleaning up after handicapped children posing as businessmen. A dentist leers from inside a bathroom stall, a spittle-thin string of floss alerts him to my arrival. I pause to reconsider my teeth.

Something in the river. Something heavy that floats. A reflective sticker on the back of certain highway signs. A helicopter without running lights. Methadone in my milkshake, Prozac in my cancer. Bad breath. Dog whistles.

At home late things quiet down, just the occasional microwaved footnote or wrong number. I'll never answer that phone. My mother couldn't hear them up on the roof.

I'm three years older than my birth certificate says, I can tell by my hair.

I'll sleep when it's over.

"They don't know I know."

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