The cool forest air of the mountain morning filled my lungs with a joy that reminds me of memories distant past. This was freedom! This was software freedom.

I stepped outside into the dawn, a thin smoke rising from my nudity. My conjoined twin sons were already playing outside, running in the flipping cartwheel that only twins joined at the top of the skull can do.

"Hello, little ones!" I called joyously in elder Guatemalen (an archaic but beautiful tongue my bride and I speak to our children in.) "What a software day it is, you agree not?"

But before they could answer through their giggling merriment, I saw danger down on the mountain! It was one of those damned guerrilas, a soldier from a splinter group of the FARC that has wandered off from their Colombian motherland, lead by a charismatic American colonel named Curtis or something, whom these FARC worship like a god, listening to his half-baked poetry and military theories.

This guerilla was dressed in a female baboon skin, the aroused blue ass seeming green in the golden sunlight. He carried a severed head in one hand -- my neighbor, Ricardo Bus�nessweek, a friend since childhood -- and a weapon fashioned from a straight razor and cow's jawbone in the other.

Peps�! Arc�! I screamed. The filthy godless guerilla swiped at my twins, right at the point where their skulls joined -- but luckily my little childrenitas heard my naked cry and spun up into the air, a twisting windmill fury like a kalidescope in the sun.

Have at you! I said, descending on the FARC like a Guatemalean Apollonian fury, golden and terrible. See here, then!

From his flesh we made a bounty of steaks. How my boys enjoyed their breakfast! How they spun delightedly in their gyro-chair, savouring the taste of conquest!

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