DeadpanWalking's photostream

Now that my attentions aren't being drawn by my countless
enemies, I'll elaborate on my biographical statement. My
name is Ross. I was born in rural Arkansas where I lived
until age three when I was torn from my mother and made the
ward of a rich industrialist whom I won't name for obvious
reasons. I was kept in seclusion in India, away from the
journalists and photographers, until my 18th birthday, at
which point I joined Her Majesty's Royal British Secret
Service and began my dangerous and bloody crusade against
Mata Khary, the admiral Canaris, and the secret German
terrorist organization 'FEME'. After the cease fire (and we
all know there is no such thing as a cease fire for spies)
I gathered a crew of local yoemen and set out for the south
pole on my yacht (modified for the occasion). Of course the
crew mutinied, led by my reprobate captain, and I was
unceremoniously tossed overboard to my assumed death.
Rather than drowning, I managed to wash myself up on a
remote, somewhat deserted island inhabited only by a
selectively
canniblistic indiginous tribe. I further managed to gain
the affections of the daughter of the King, quickly married
her, and finagled to usurp the throne in a matter of days.
During my ceremonial crowning, the island was attacked by
pirates. I fought them with all of the majestic
countainence that my newly approved title would dictate,
but was still taken prisoner. Shackled in their dark hull,
mostly unconcious, I awoke to learn that I was now in
Brooklyn, New York, and had been sold as a slave to two
society dandies - Mrrs. Bjorn L. and Aaron H.,
respectively. Of all the
evils I've faced in my life, nothing compares to the unholy
treatment served to me cold by my vile captors. Every
morning
hearkens the darkest day of my life. I beg of you ... all
of you ... tell the authorities what's going on in this
foul bourough! Please, I don't know how much longer I can
hold out! Wa