Fake ID and a plausible back-story won't fix that. I think my mom just phoned it in, like my elementary school transcript. Hey I was glad when she Photo Shopped me a shot-card, and my birth-certificate should be hanging in a museum, but I've got roots like an aeroponic-endive. They're neat and clean and just hanging out there, but they don't even hint at where I acquired my distinctive flavor. And yet, here I am.
After my unexpected lay-over at the Birmingham airport, I was released into the wild, but I was encouraged to make alternative arrangements for my return to Flatware County. As carrier of last resort, it was Cousin OD who finally got me home.
The last of the stickers are long since removed, and as you may have noticed, scratches don't last long in gel. The costs of traveling down "The Rabbit Hole" weren't all demanded up-front. OD warned me about the hazards of bi-location experiments including, deletion, diversion, serial dislocation, and the possible generation of one or more doppelgangers. Great I can just picture my Samsonite raining down on the Nimnatons. Oh well there's a number on the tags, maybe they'll call.
Standing at the double line squinting into the sunshine of Flatware County I wasn't thinking, maybe I'll die, is that really where I'll land?, or "Think of the children." All I could think was, "Click your heels, click your heels, there's no place like home." Well I made it. The scratches are healed, and like Sidual said, "You can always get new luggage." Chilling here at the Ice House, dozing "Under The White Wind," my contentment is still in flux. I feel a ripple in the force. Have I spawned a whole tribe of pale green Frankies, or maybe just one new me lost and alone, watching for a way home in the broken sky.