If you are reading this, he may have already succeeded in destroying me.
Montag is hunting
I survived my first night in Glasgow. But only through a combination of: luck, several years of developing an immunity to all toxins, my mastery of White Lotus Kung Fu, and the kevlar vest that now lies in useless shreds somewhere on Argyle St.
It began when I arrived in the Airport. A depressing building somewhat reminiscent of a 1950s Cuban airstrip. After receiving what remained of my bags (my precious cargo of Faberge Eggs, My Little Ponies, and Romanian surplus AK-47s irredeemably damaged by the clumsy, brutish handlers)I stepped into a narrow hallway, and noticed a single pound coin glittering in the floor. My natural frugality saved my life. Just as I bent to pick it up, I heard a whistling sound followed by a menacing thud as a knife flew over my head and embedded itself in the wall just behind me. A demonic cackle pierced the air, and a tiny figure in a billowing coat sneered, "welcome to Scotland, bitch!"
I would have lost the swordfight had he realized that I am not right-handed.
He has been chasing me through the streets. Taunting me. I thought I found respite in the sewers, only to find him waiting for me with a crossbow when I ducked into a narrow culverts. Had I worn the chainmail instead, its deadly quarrel would have pierced my heart. He then lit a cigarette and dropped a glowing ember into the methane-infused waters of the run-off.
I am tired. He has sent dogs. Robotic bees have stung me. And just now I drank an irn-bru that tastes of cyanide and possibly Polonium-210.
I send this not in hope of receiving help. It may be too late for me. That dour old woman reading the Mail across from me may be one of his agents. But someone, please, stop him.
Don't let my death be in vain. Don't let him take over the world.