The Picture of Sascha Bogdan
Unfortunately, something awful has happened to me. No, nobody has tried to eat me again, but regrettably my corporate sponsors have decided to take away my funding. Apparently, they felt I was not subtle enough for their guerrilla marketing campaign.
The real tragedy of this is not the loss of funds - I’ve always considered myself more an aristocrat of the mind anyway - but that my private room must be shared in order to spare my beleaguered pocket book any more worry. They have been rotating patients in and out of here like it was some sort of cheap floozy hotel. The indignity of it all!
However, all of this calamity has not been for nothing. I have gotten closer to finding out more about Sascha Bogdan, the mysterious stranger who has some connection to my mother. Last night, my roommate was that old gnarled toothed eel from South America who killed that valiant salmon.
Why, when I think of the cruelty that eel was responsible for it makes it impossible for me to forgive her in spite of her most recent kindness. When they brought her into the hospital room, she was a mess. Not only was she her usual unattractive self, but her eye was bruised and damaged. Those scales she had remaining were flaky and dull. After they put her in her tank, she plopped down to the bottom gravel, looked at me, and then grimaced. My first reaction was to hide in the corner of my tank, but after seeing Oz, I knew that I needed to stand my ground.
This ultimately was the best thing I could have done for in her despondency she could not keep up her vida loca facade up for very long. She sighed, looked me over once, and she asked me in a faint voice, "You wanna know what Sascha Bogdan looks like?"
"Y-y-yes," I answered nervously.
Sticking her tail out of the water she zapped the computer across the room two times - once to turn it on, the second to activate the Aquarium’s personnel files. She shot out an electrical current a few more times, until she pulled up Bogdan’s file. She then turned away from me and hid in the corner, muttering to herself.
From where I was, I could not see any of the file’s relevant details save for his photo. He was an ugly lout; that much I could tell. He was, at his name suggested, an Eastern European type. I could not tell his exact origin, but I knew he was of some mongrel race. He was probably a descendant of a gypsy, if not one himself. I have provided the photo here so you can gaze upon the ungainly creature. Look at his protruding hawkish nose. Consider his over sized ears, no doubt to hear the falling of lost silver. Behold his unkempt face, gone unshaven for days as he prowled the night streets for unfortunates to prey upon. Finally, observe his deviant smile, betraying his malevolent intentions towards my saintly mother, Florentina Carderas. Indeed, upon reflection I referenced my book on physiognomy and after consulting the experts, I knew right away that he had the face of a criminal.
