Moving day. I am thirty-three years old. I have lived in the same house, in the same room, slept in the same bed, practically worn the same clothes for thirty-three years. I have also worked at the same job for seventeen years. I am a clerk in the legal department. I have never missed a day of work. Nothing new ever happens at work. It's always the same job, the same desk, the same four walls, day after day after day. There's not even a window to day dream out of. However, the Breedlove case was rather interesting. Some indian-hippy freak trying to get in touch with the 'sky spirits' or something. Of course, I'm fairly sure the only spirits he's ever seen are the ones found in the bottom portion of the Jack Daniel's altar. Fortunately, my company allows sick days and holidays (which I never use) to be carried over to paychecks. So after thirty-three years in Egypt and seventeen years in the wilderness, I have finally saved up enough of a down payment to move into the promised land; a new house (new to me), a new life, maybe even new me.

The moving truck broke down, of course. Fortunately I am able to pack every single possession into one truck so I am not separated from my earthly treasures. I feel like Abram's father Terah who set out for Canaan, but only got to Haran. I am half-way, stuck, waiting on someone else to come and repair my transportion. How symbolic. My whole life has been half-way. My whole life has depended on someone else to come and fix whatever it was I broke. I've always had to be dependent and all I've ever wanted was to be independent.

Finally, the truck is fixed. The one-vehicle caravan is moving. Ali baba is heading out eastward across the desert. Ishmael is aboard the pequod and anchors are aweigh.

There it is. My new home. My new Isle de Monte Christo. I have escaped from le Chateau d'if and my new life has begun. As the moving truck nears, the new house looms into view and I cannot help but to wonder if this new conquest burning inside was the same feeling Julius Caeser felt as he approached the British shoreline.

The stuff is unpacked and littered across the sidewalk. All of my junk seems to be gathered about me as if a pirate was surrounded by his weighty plunder. Who am I kidding? The moving guys were supposed to take it all into the house, but since they spent so much time repairing the truck, they bolted as soon as everything was unloaded. No matter. My stuff is fairly easy to move. One love seat, which is the most unaptly named piece of furniture in Seattle, three lamps, several quill and fountain pen sets and, of course, umpteen million books. I used to have book shelves, but they didn't quite make the move.

And there's always my ever trusty companion Bocephalus. Bocephalus is my dog. Chi hua hua. Pure bred. I've got the papers to prove it. Come to think of it; where is Bocephalus?

Confound it! He's already ran over into the neighbor's yard; in his flower bed- Wo! That's no daisy he's planting! I'd better go and get him. I just hope my new neighbor isn't home to see- oh fiddle-dee-dee, here he comes out the front door!

S-S-S-Sorry sir. No sir. Noooo sir. Yes sir. Yes sir. No sir. Sorry Sir. Sir I didn't mean for my dog to- Yes sir, but I just moved in and- No sir, like I said, I'm already sorry and-

Rick. It's Rick Houston! Rickster the Trickster! It's really you- I mean you're my neighbor! It's me Nap!

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