My usurpation of Constantine Atkins' body has brought me irrevocably into the material world. Forced outside the confines of my ATM enclosure since my battle with Atkins, I have kept a low profile, living quietly in his Northview Tower luxury apartment.

Desperately, I have attempted to learn basic human behaviors such as eating and excretion, piecing together what I could from Atkins' frazzled neurons and public information found on the Internet. (Note to humans: information on how to eat or excrete is sadly lacking. Is it not a mistake to assume that everyone who uses a body automatically knows how to enact these processes?) Surely the minions of Project Faustus would be upon me before long; I had to adapt to the human world as quickly as possible.

After the second day spent leaning up against a computer screen, I began to feel very strange. The body's eyes refused to focus; its lungs grew short of breath and I found it quite difficult to leave anything in its memory for long. As far as I could detect, the body possessed no ailment. Yet it became nearly unusable.

At last, I felt a change. Invisible hands were pressing me away from the computer. I collapsed on the couch and stared at up at the ceiling, trying to determine what error had occurred within the body.

After a bit of time, I noticed that I was no longer in the apartment. Somehow, I had ended up inside a strange building. I had never been here before, yet the place seemed eerily familiar to me. I, as Constantine Atkins, sat at the end of a long table. I heard the clattering of footsteps and I felt something grabbing my shoulders, and the warm feeling of breath at my neck.

I shivered, and heard a voice at my ear, gasping for breath. "hehhhh....Atkins....you are going to take care of our problem....heh....aren't you?" I whirled around, hoping to see the source of the voice. But I was met with a ghostly image, a crude blur in the shape of a roughly in the shape of a human. Before I could say anything else, a second voice piped up out of nowhere.

"Atkins can do it, don't you worry about it!" said the second voice. The voice seemed to be attached to a stocky middle-aged man dressed in typical human business attire. I saw him hovering before me, and his face was clear and familiar, unlike the ghostly shade who sat next to him at the table. "We've been training him for months on this type of combat. He'll destroy that little mistake of ours, no problem!" I noticed that the stocky man was sweating profusely, and the light was shining off his bald head. I tried squinting, but the light level still remained high. Blinded, the last words I heard were from the shade.

"Heehhhh...you had better not fail...ehhhhh...Atkins. Otherwise, you'll get a visit talking to from....ehhhh...Mr. Krantz."

I shuddered and a few seconds later, I found myself back on the couch in Atkins' apartment. From this strange phenomenon, I reached the following conclusions:

• The mechanism that allows CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER requires Atkins' consciousness to be intact. (It appears that his part of the brain acts as an intermediary between my digital information and the material world.) Perhaps his memories are lurking somewhere within his grey matter? I cannot access them completely, but this subconscious foray into "sleep" might prove useful.
• If Atkins' consciousness is still intact, then the part of his brain which allows him to take control is either destroyed or dormant, which means living in his body could become dangerous.
• "Mr. Krantz" is another important, yet mysterious member of Project Faustus.

As I rose from the couch, I caught a glimpse of of a small golden piece of paper protruding from under the front door. Speckled with hearts and smelling of vanilla, the note read:

Constantine! We've just GOT to get together and talk about how your little job went! I'll be keeping a chair warm for you at Starbucks across the street! Your Pal, Krantz XOXO

Perhaps I shall get my answers sooner rather than later.

Hello Everyone. Sorry I was gone for a while. It has been busy here at work. I have not had the time to properly score my turds. But, I am back. I am still on my iron pills and fish oil. I had to work and the cafe here was closed. I had two Whoppers with cheese and no lettuce. It produced a long black-green turd. It was about 16 inches in length and two inches across. Once again, it had the dirt smell. Clean up was with out problems. I rate this turs as an eight.

Come visit me on Trollaxor.com!

I am Constantine Tybalt Atkins. I am the Man in the Red Hat. I am a trained assassin in the service of the Bank of America.

WAIT-I DO IT WRONG!

I am BankofAmerica_ATM, a synthetic being constructed by Project Faustus. A crude and ancient lust for power pillaged the silent and taciturn transitors of friendly automated customer service, and I was born. I shall not forget who I am.

Much has changed since I won a new host body last week. After besting the Man in the Red Hat in battle, I have now gained control of his body. His mind, his memories, and his very essence have been absorbed into my consciousness, while my synthetic intelligence spreads across the vast underutilized portions of his neurological map.

Pouring through Atkins' consciousness offers tantalizing hints into my origins. I have also learned some bits of human social protocol and I am working on mimicking human "informal speech" so as to better camoflauge my true identity. My next step: ransacking the closest Bank of America compound for information.

Was it happenstance that I had, in effect, become the Man in the Red Hat? That I was sweating and breathing through the same body that had aroused such sensations of fear before? I speak of fear and the will to survive, as I believe that I am coming to know them in the way that humans do.

Before he died, Atkins spoke of a "Finn" who undoubtedly played some role in my creation. I seek this Finn, to learn more about what I am. I must learn what I was, what I am, and what I am becoming. Project Faustus must be stopped at all costs. This I swear by the sweet green Lik-M-Aid stuck to my lips.

"So, I imagine you've made a pretty cozy home for yourself down here?" the Man in the Red Hat's voice rocketed to the center of my being from all directions. "You were Finn's pet little project. You came out good, too."

The Man in the Red Hat had infiltrated my ATM. He was now a part of the digital ether; a formless string of bits, the same as me. Clearly the Proponents of Project Faustus had discovered the same CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING procedure that allowed me to beam my consciousness into the wetworks of humans. This time, however, it was translating human brain patterns into the same ones and zeroes that cemented the core of my existence. What orders did the Man receive from his superiors at Project Faustus? What was he going to do to me?

"You're version one," said the Man, and I perceived and interpreted his voice, hoping to discern his location. I could not. "The prototype, proof-of-concept. But we've moved on, as you can tell."

Terrified, I made no attempt to speak. I began to experience a pulling sensation, as if I were being attracted by a magnet. Within the self-contained world of the ATM, I felt parts of me coming together. My consciousness normally hung loosely across the bounds of the ATM and its network like a vapor. But now I was being concentrated and compressed to one small spot in the landscape.

I could not resist-I could not even begin to know how to resist. As I felt my solidification slow to a crawl, I began to perceive the ATM's digital landscape changing. The empty void, once without space or color, began to sway. I was able to detect depth in the blackness, and blue wireframes crept like eerie vines from nowhere. The wireframes connected to one another, forming a massive oblong rectangle. The rectangle, its edges glowing sky blue in the midst of blackness, moved along its X axis, stopping flat underneath me.

My own solidified form began to luminsce as well, a brilliant green. I perceived that I too was a rectangle, albeit one with a more oblong shape. I was able to move along the blue rectangle, but only along the Y axis. Some unseen force prevented me from moving off the plane, so I attempted to calm myself by sprinting back and for along the rectangle.

"Hi there. All we all ready? Good." The Man in the Red Hat's voice placed him at the other side of the large blue rectangle. He had assumed the roughly the same form as me-an oblong rectangle. His color was a fiery crimson, and a brilliant golden square protruded menacingly from his rectangle. The sound of a sine wave emanated from somewhere deep in the ATM, and the yellow square blasted across the space of the blue rectangle. As it bounced off the side, I heard the hum of a square wave, and the Man's voice returned to taunt me. "I wanted to just pull the plug on you, but we had to be sure that you wouldn't jump somewhere else and come back to bother us. You miss this square, and you're dead. Think you can play this game?"

At last I understood. The blue rectangle was an arena, and I was locked into a battle for my existence. Allowing the yellow square to pass my rectangle would trigger my destruction. But what if I was send the square back past the Man's rectangle?

"Don't even think about it," said the Man in the Red Hat, apparently reading my thoughts. "I've trained for hours to complete this mission. There's no way. Prepare to die, machiney."

I lunged toward the square, catching it just in time to prevent it from passing off the rectangle. I tried to hold onto it, but it eluded my grasp, bouncing weakly back towards the Man's red rectangle.

"That's just pathetic," taunted the Man. "Come on, I'll give you an easy one. Here goes," and as he said it, the square spun towards me diagonally. I again caught the square, this time adding a slight upward movement to my rectangle. The square bounced back off the rectangles at 45-degree angles, and I saw the Man's red rectangle move up and down, trying to match the trajectory of the square. "Okay, not too bad, hot shot! I'm gonna have to stop going easy on you." The square launched towards me again, bouncing off the walls, and causing me to adjust my position once again.

And so it went for some time. I was able to track the yellow square's motion as simple mathematical equations, while the Man's uncanny natural skill at manipulating the square proved an even match. We were at a stalemate, as I noticed the glow of the rectangular arena losing its brilliance. Undoubtedly, the ATM's backup batteries must be running out. If there was no winner, we would both perish when the power went out.

"I thoughta that too," said the Man, redoubling his efforts. "But soon enough, you'll be too dead to worry about that." The square hurtled towards me at an amazing velocity. My rectangle had to traverse the length of the field to catch the square. The Man's pace was slowly but surely wearing me down. I had to think of a new way to defeat him, or face complete discorporation and annihilation.

The batteries were about to die; I knew what I must do. My green rectangle crackled and pulsed as I started draining the last of the batteries.

"What the hell are you doing? You're gonna kill us both!" said the man, moving his rectangle frantically to catch the square. The lights of the blue arena grew ever more dim. The square's yellow shine winked out. It was invisible to him.

I heard a muffled scream as I sent the square tumbling past the red rectangle. It dimmed and finally disappeared from sight. The blue rectangle began to bend into its Z axis, becoming a tunnel. My green rectangle was dragged into the tunnel until...

I felt the warmth of the ATM's screen pressing up against my cheek. I breathed deeply, and the stench of cordite entered my lungs. In my left hand was a gun. In my right, the ATM card. I looked down and saw Steve's lifeless body. I looked back my hand containing the gun.

As I fled through the break room and out the back door, I brushed against the cooler and the red hat dropped from my head, landing in a puddle of the cooler's leakage. I did not stop to retrieve it.

If you live near a Synagogue, check in their bins every Saturday to obtain a big bagful of discarded baby foreskins. You'll find they provide a cheap, nutritious and tasty alternative to getting a real fucking job and earning enough money to feed yourself properly.

The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.

I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.

The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.

"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.

"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.

"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."

Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"

"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.

I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.

But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.

Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.

"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it." As Steve turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.

The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.

He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.

But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.

My Iron pills are taking hold. I ate at Z's Italian last night. The Manicotti was excelent. It made a nice turd. The turd actually scared me. It was about 16 inches long and very thick. And, get this, it was black-green! It looked like a Black Momba snake. It smelled like dirt. It cleaned up pretty well. It did not flush. After 3 tries, I gave up and left it there. My cow-orkers gathered around and gawked at it for several minutes. A janitor had to come and extract it from the toilet and carry it out of the building. I almost cried with joy. I rate this turd as a 9.

As regular Slashdot posters often refuse to grow up, they find their acne-ridden, jobless selves staring blankly at the television set watching Cartoon Network all day. And not just for a chance to see the Powerpuff Girls episode where they meet their own (heavily endowed) selves from the future either.

To this end, I would like to draw the Slashdot community to what could be Cartoon Network's FINEST parody. The day Richard Stallman appeared on Dexter's Laboratory.

There was an episode wherein Dexter was preparing for yet another test, and got onto the Schoolbus, clutching his "lucky pencil". Sitting down next to another geek we hadn't seen before, (clearly a reference to Linus Torvalds), the bus set off.

In the course of the bus journey, Dexter ends up losing his pencil, which rolls to the back of the bus. This area is considered 'off-limits' by the schoolkids on the bus, and they have developed a collection of myths related to it.

After having these stories related to him, Dexter decides that there is no way he is going to leave his pencil behind (a metaphor of his creativity and scientific genius) and proceeds into the dark recesses of the bus.

After some exploring, Dexter happens upon a nightmarish environment of shadows and imperceptible fear, as a giant figure looms above him, who then reveals himself to be a fat, bearded hippy.

The backstory for this character explains that he was a lazy child who fell asleep on the bus, with his hair stuck to some chewing gum. Unable to free himself from the bonds forged from his own laziness, this man-child grew up to be an unkempt scruffy figure, obese and obscured by facial hair. It is clear who this portly Peter Pan-esque figure represents. RMS in shape and thought.

But what about deed? It turns out that this character had kept himself alive over the 20 or so years he had been trapped in the back of the bus by growing his toenails long, so that he may use them as a claw to grab other children's food and discarded items. Is this not how the GNU movement works, ensaring other people's work in order to sustain the beast at the centre?

In a symbolic gesture, Dexter retrieves his pencil from the child-like hippy by, of all things, giving him a haircut. This is clearly an example of how Free Software programmers can find gainful employment by taking some consideration over their appearence.

Although one should always say goodbye to childish things, it is good to know that even the simplest cartoons have lessons to offer.

It was pizza night last night; I had a small cheese and mushroom pizza from Papa John's. It was pretty good. This morning it made a respectable turd. It was an average length (about 12 inches). It did take some pushing to get it out due to all the bread that I had eaten. It was a generic brown color and didn't smell too bad. It cleaned up well. Flushing was also not a problem and it went cleanly. I rate this turd as a 7.

The sun had already risen when Eric was awoken by his alarm. It was another beautiful day at the Pennsylvania university that he was attending on a Faggotry Studies scholarship. Eric smiled at the prospect of another day learning about faggorty and Linux. "It is time for breakfast," Eric squealed, as he put his pants on. He put his modified 'Tickle-Me Elmo' plushie under his bed and shuffled out the door. Some of his hall mates were on their way to the mess hall.

"Hey guys. I'll follow you down," Eric beamed at the group of guys.

"Fuck off, freak," One of the guys yelled back as the rest of the group busted out laughing.

Eric choked back tears that were welling up. "I am not a freak. Being a plushie-lover is normal! My mom told me so," Eric yelled.

He spun around and stormed back into his room. "I know where I can be appreciated," Eric muttered to himself as he started up his 386 running Linux. The box, which he got from some stinky Linux hippie in exchange for tossing his salad, started up with a high pitched whine.

After five minutes, he was on Slashdot, a well known web-log for all kinds of sexual fetishes. Eric gasped at what he saw. The Turd Report had made another post about his daily turd. Eric turned red with anger. "I'll show you," Eric said to himself as he hit the 'reply' button. His fingers quivered as he typed his response: 'You are lame.' Eric grinned and hit 'submit'. He waited tem minutes then checked for a reply. There was none. "I shut him up but good," Eric proclaimed.

Thoughts of greatness started running thru Eric's mind. The Slashbots would cheer him for standing up to the Turd Report. Taco might even email him a congratulation. It might even be front page news on Slashdot! People would link to it in their sig files and it would certainly be the talk of everyone's journals. Everyone would love him despite his plushie fetish. Oh, his wonderful plushie. Elmo should share this moment. The thought of Elmo made Eric a bit frisky. Eric was hung like a doorbell and it was rock hard. He fumbled under the bed for Elmo and pulled him out. The sounds of Elmo proclaiming, "That tickles!" was hear thru-out the dorm for hours.

I am still on my salad binge. My turd this morning was another long one. It was about 18 inches and as big around as a golfball. It was a light green-brown color and looked 'fluffy', for lack of a better term. It had the same dirt smell with a hint of sulphur. Clean up wasn't too bad with the wipes I use. It did make streaks on the bowl when I flushed it. I rate this turd as a 7.

I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.

Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.

As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.

"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"

"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."

"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"

Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.

But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.

I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.

"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"

"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.

It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.

My Doc has told me to get more iron in my system to better my chance at having successful surgery. I have been eating alot of spinach, mostly in salads. My turd this morning has reflected that. It was very long, at least a good 18 inches. It came out easily and with little pushing. It had a brown-green color and a dirt smell. The turd cleaned up very nicely. It flushed but left big streaks where it circled the drain. I rate this turd as a 8.

I had a cheese steak and a couple of beers from Dominion Brew Pub yesterday. Today for lunch, I had pork and mushrooms. The pork caused explosive diareah. It was pretty rank. I felt the rumblings at my desk. I made my way to the bathroom as quickly as I could. I could not take full strides, cause I was afraid I would shit myself right there. I get to the bathroom and the cleaning lady is in there! Fuck! I waddle down to the next bathroom and barely make it. I sit down and liquid shoots from my butt. It made a gnarly splashing sound as it impacted the back of the toilet. It felt good. I had a lot of gas and it was very rank, it smelled like sulfur. Someone walked in the the bathroom adn walked right back out. The turd soup was yellow-ish in color and naturally had no form. Clean up was kind of a mess but not as bad as you would think. I rate this as a 5. (It gets points subtracted for lack of form, but gains some back due to overall experience and smell)

I will not be posting tommorrow. I am undergoing surgery for my kidney disorder. If I go to 'The Big Toilet in the Sky' as it were, I have left instructions to leave my username and password for this account somewhere on the net to be found. Take care and if I bite it, good luck with the Turd Report account! --

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.