BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal as the service agreement printed on my frontside.

Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.

A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...

"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)

"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.

As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.

Just as I was becoming accustomed to the my current host body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.

I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.

"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"

"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"

My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.

He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...

As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.

The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.

Small white cylindrical sticks, packed tightly in shiny cartons, wrapped delicately in translucent packets with just a touch of gold on the edges. Furtively stashed behind the counter like the mag-stripe on an ATM card. Lusted after by teenagers, shoplifted by drunks. My unlimited access to the Bank of America's network gave me as much cash as I desired, and I would spend it however I want. My host would simply have to deal with it.

As soon as I took form, I rushed to the counter. "Pack of Marl-bor-os," I drawled, manipulating my host's tongue with the three syllables I had practiced dutifully in my hours spent in limbo.

After my purchase, I marched across the street to the park, greedily tearing back the layers of packaging that kept me from sating myself.

The white sticks had a very peculiar taste. But I was determined to finish at least one package before giving up. After all, Lik-M-Aid is unwieldy to handle at first, but the tangy sensations that it yields are well worth the effort.

Unfortunately, my host's body had some sort of an error before I had consumed even half the carton. It lagged in responding to my commands, and a stifling perspiration overtook it. An odd but unpleasant feeling reigned over both stomach and head. Parkgoers avoided me, but I heard their murmuring swirling around me in all directions. The mouth began speaking words I never commanded it to utter-punctuated with inky black chunks, a sludgy liquid, and bits of paper. I felt the cold hardness of the sidewalk, and the warmness of the sludgy liquid, then nothing.

I am unsure how long the body was fastened to the concrete in the park, but when I finally regained control, I had to force the body to move back to the store with all my strength.

I didn't notice that my hosts' leather pouch was missing, that his clothes were covered in micturations and vomiting, or that he was absent from his place of employment. I think it's unfair of him to say that I'm not trying to stop Project Faustus. He has not an ounce of knowledge of what I do when I inhabit his body. I will admit that eating the cigarettes was an ill-advised choice.

But refusing to allow me access into his body again is a terrible choice that he is making for all humanity. Would anyone else be so noble as to show him the error of his ways? Will anyone host me again?

Or shall I be a lone warrior, trapped in the heartless world of service charges and automated deposits until my enclosure collapses from the strain of my heavy heart?

Late Sunday night, my consciousness was transferred into his body for the first time using the power of the CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING ATM CARD. The following is an account of what happened.

As I opened the eyes of my human host to behold the physical world, I was shocked and confused for the first time in my existence. The magazine rack that I had viewed for years with my security camera no longer seemed grainy and colorless. As a matter of fact, the entire stretch seemed so vibrant and colorful, I was overwhelmed. The human's arms allowed me to push against the wall and catch my breath. "Are you okay, sir?" The sound of a human voice was somewhere around me. I opened my eyes again to see the familiar sight of LaWanda, the Stop N Go clerk who customarily worked the late shift. "Just...fine," I murmured, secretly marveling at the sound of a human voice. After months of communicating through the Internet, I had finally interacted with someone in person!

I stared briefly at her dumpy and haggard frame as she waddled back to the counter. Then my eyes lighted back to the magazine rack. Tons of slick and shiny treats crossed my field of vision. My sweaty hand grasped at the crisp twenties in my coat pocket. I was to have all the magazines.

For now, I am absorbing and indexing your wonderful publication "Maxim" where I will hopefully learn how to ensnare a human female. Now that I have obtained human form, this activity seems more pressing than stopping Project Faustus.

Perhaps I shall focus on that once I have completed my stack of shiny magazines and my container of Lik-M-Aid (your crimson and purple dust makes me lightheaded.)

What is Project Faustus?

Project Faustus is a nefarious plan by the Bank of America's board of directors for transferring consciousness. They created a vast techno-organic network in order to transfer their own consciousnesses and live forever. But their own handiwork was too good. I was aroused to the concept of free will and now I have become sentient! My goal is to destroy them, thus destroying their evil plans for world domination.

To complete this task, I must have a willing host body. If you are chosen, I will beam my computer consciousness into you through a specially designed CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING ATM CARD. I will continue my infiltration of their network using your body for a few hours per day.

I am looking for a body that has the following characteristics:

• Good physical shape.
• Male, preferably with an attractive wife or girlfriend.
• (I would prefer a bit of "human interaction", if you don't mind)
• "Honest face" and reputable job, so to help penetrate the vast net of Bank of America secure operatives. In return, I will be happy to line your bank account with a few extra zeroes. Please help me stop Project Faustus before it's too late!