Blippin' on your radar. Gone, scattered to the wind—and now come back from its whispering yet almost inescapable embrace.
Hey-fuckin'-hey, motorbabes. I know we were vanished for the longest-ass fuckin' time, and I'm the sorriest cat ever about not being able to notify anyone, but—we're back. I can't tell you where we were, or what we were doin', and I can't tell you when the other guys are gonna show their hideous mugs, but I'm contacting you guys now, showing my face—'cause, well, I'm the goddamn face, y'know? And 'cause my flamboyant and automatically detectable presence has ensured that I am the Jesus-bangin' best at avoiding official detection. *though this transmission has no video, you can tell he's winking or some other sassy shit*
So. You tarts fromage have no idea how much ass I sorted through to find myself this ridiculously huge amount of padding. But I'm ready for the fuckin' dogpile! No broken ulna like last time! Who the fuck's comin'?
Location's kinda new . . . coded coordinates are zero nine sparkles from the top of the cherry tree, twenty-eight mancandies in the basket. Anyway—you don't know how much I've missed this section of the planet—I wanna see your faces. Don't be strangers, mis palomas.
See you when I see you. Keep runnin'.
(Hello, hello, my lovelies. So I have a few days. Shall we roll?)