You see, that is what happened to me, when I visited the Gallatin County Museum and Historical Society. While taking a picture of Montana agates, I must have pissed off someone, because, after a quick jab to the head, I blacked out and found myself here.
At first I was disoriented. Left with a tin cup, I rattled it against the bars of my cell until they finally gave me confinement that had a bathroom. And man did I need it. But let's not discuss those details.
There I met my cellmates, "Bad Hair" Wally and a particularly stiff figure who only called himself, "Tan." I thought Tan and I would get along great, because, well I he sounded like he had an Asian name, just like me. But he didn't move to much. Neither did Bad Hair Wally. They just laid there on their bunks while I was forced to sleep on the hard concrete floor for the night.
Turns out Tan was a ground squirrel smuggler. He had been wanted in Big Sky for many months for ruining their golf courses by bringing hundreds of ground squirrels to the greens which dug up the golf course making it virtually impossible for all of the wealthy tourists to do anything except drive around in golf carts and complain about how their taxes were too high. Bad Hair Wally is the most notorious wig thief west of Billings known for stealing wigs off the heads of cancer patients and octo-genenarian church going women. I am not certain why they were so quiet, so sedate, but I thought it had to do with the food the museum/jail volunteer tried to feed us. I refused to eat any because, well, I didn't want to end up like them.
I knew I had to plan my escape.
Fortunately, I could see a display within reach of my cells containing all the keys. I thought they might be the means for me to break free and get Tan and Wally out as well.
Being a museum first and jail second, everything was properly labeled, and so I knew that when I saw this display from my cell, I was closer to salvation. Using ninja skills, I honed in the alleyways of Portland, I deftly gathered the keys and unlocked my cell. Wally and Tan, refused to move. Stockholm syndrome had taken effect during this time in the Bozeman museum/jail. I can't blame them. The displays were so cute, so historic, so nicely presented. I could stay here for at least another hour as well.
First things first, remove the shackles that confined me, and place them properly back in their display as if no one had known they were missing.
Second things second, contemplate arming myself incase the volunteer/warden had gathered reinforcements for my inevitable breakout.
Finally...RUN!!!
And so I write this post on the lam. A rogue group of volunteer historians have been seeking me out using small lap dogs and GPS systems that their grandchildren have yet to teach them how to use. It has been two weeks now. And while the mountains around Bozeman are good for hiding, I fear bears, cougars, and joggers on the trails. My food is almost out, and I don't know how long I will have a wi-fi signal. I fear what will happen when I venture closer to town when I finally need the essentials of beef jerky, ginger ale, and toilet paper.
Godspeed.
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