A Letter To Cyrano de Bergerac.

My dear friend, this is day six of my captivity. I live under most appalling conditions and I’m starved to death. Two impostors, posing as my daughter and grandson, are keeping me prisoner in my own castle.

Cyrano, please come to my aid. Also bring D’artagnan and Monsieur De Treville along. I believe they are presently in Gascony as well. If Monsieur Delatude still wears that fear inspiring helmet with the horns, bring him too. It will require a formidable force to secure the release from my captors.

During the first two days of my captivity I was kept in a white castle, guarded by creatures resembling penguins, sticking needles and tubes into my body, attaching probes to my head; trying to make me talk, but I had admitted to nothing.

I am under close guard all the time and have to suffer the indignity daily of having to shower in the presence of that young man posing as my grandson. I think they are scared that I might escape through the drain pipe, which will soon be possible with the meagre rations I receive while they eat like kings.

All I get is serials, skimmed milk, rye bread, weak tea, steamed fish, salad, feta, low fat cottage cheese, pork chops (no fat), cooked chicken (no skins), boiled veggies and a bit of rice. The entrances to my larder and cellar are blocked by a hooded axe man with a body like a woman. No sugar, no salt, no fat, no butter, no wine, no coffee.

To entertain myself I have a soft rubber ball, a broken computer keyboard and a boring half-read novel – The key to Rebecca - while they watch satellite TV all day. I am permitted to watch TV with them for one hour every night, but so far I have declined. I refuse to fraternise with the enemy.

I fear that they drug me, for I sleep much more than usually. Whenever I’m awake I use the rubber ball and the keyboard to exercise my hand that I had injured in a duel with a goat-clawed creature last week. I’m sure he had horns. My skills are returning one by one and my typing is improving slowly, but surely.

Yesterday they took me to their torture chambers where they worked my injured hand to a point where I was prepared to sign any confession; except for being gay. They plan to take me there tomorrow again. It is imperative that I escape soon.

I beseech thee to hurry my friend, as I fear for my sanity if this is to prevail for much longer!

Your comrade in arms.

Pùss In Boots.