Journal, my ass...

The Bureau shrink suggested that I keep a journal of my experiences, so that I 'could work out my issues' with my new existence. I don't think he, or my handlers, will appreciate the public forum that I am now using to do just that. But hey, what can they do now, fire me? I don't think so.

You see, when you are already dead, you get an attitude. Maybe its the freedom from all of the expectations and worries of living, or maybe I'm just pissed because I feel trapped in this shell of a body they have set me up with.

I guess I shouldn't complain too much, since this is essentially the same body I died with. Maybe if I had been a little better at taking care of myself when I was alive, I wouldn't be so disgusted at what I see in the mirror, but I don't know how good they can make a body look that's been dead for more than a year after being shot in the forehead.

So, by now you must be pretty confused. I probably should explain a little bit about myself, but this will be difficult since many of the details of my existence are considered top secret, and even I don't have clearance to know all of the details.

I can reveal that the name that I am using here was assigned to me when they 'woke me up'. I was a cop, and a damn good one, before I was killed in the line of duty on October 31, 2003. My life hadn't been a bed of roses, but things were just starting to get good again before that night. I had just finished with a nasty divorce where she got almost everything except my balls, but I was looking so forward to actually using those things again! I had finally sobered up and was in line for a promotion that would have had me sitting pretty until retirement, maybe ten years down the line...damn it all, hold on, my lens is fogging up....

Alright, so maybe I still smoked too much, but a man's gotta have at least one vice, no? So much for worrying about cancer. If I had known I would have ended up like this, I sure would have smoked a few more Cubans. I had this great connection, a fellow cop from Canada. He'd score the Cubans for me, and I'd hook him with the occasional Red Wings tickets. But there was always the nagging, 'You'll stink up the house', or 'You're gonna make the kids sick'. Bah.

Anyway, I was a local cop see, and I made the dumb ass mistake a few years back of signing up for this top-secret experiment with the DOJ. Seems like they had this horseshit theory about keeping a persons soul around after they died. They said they would be able to transfer your soul into a machine, or some hyped up version of your body again, and you could theoretically live forever. Now I didn't believe any of this voodoo bullshit, but they were offering an annual bonus every friggin year you stayed in the program, and as long as you did their little rituals and wore this special little doodad (sorry classified material here) all the time.

Hey, I wasn't religious, figured I had nothing lose, and the extra money sure helped out when things got tight, like they always do. Anyway, imagine my surprise when I woke the hell up in the morgue with all of the bastards in suits and one strange dude in robes looking down at my ass!

Whoah, talk about strange. Last thing I remembered was staring down the barrel of my own damn gun that the punks had taken in the course of the struggle, there was a flash and bang and sudden pain. They were all wearing masks of presidents, and it just figured I'd get whacked by Shrubya.

Hold on, I am getting paged. Looks like I need to wrap this up tonight. I've got so much more to tell you about, but I am on call 24/7/365, and there is stuff that only I can do.