Free at Last?

I remember how I felt when I found out that Mom and I had been found guilty. Smug. I knew I had done nothing wrong and there was no way either Mom or I were going to be remaining in police custody much longer. Then, the wait. Over a month. My only friend left, the drug dealer's cell phone who kept me company in the evidence room, told me Mom cut a deal and sold me out. I told him to stop smoking what his owner sold. That would never happen. First of all, she chose me and bought me, legally or not, so I knew she must have some loyalty to me. Second, she had young Master to answer to if I did not return home safely. I was not worried.

Then one day appeared the nice investigator I remembered with the sandwiches at the raid on our home. He put me back in the box with which I was delivered to that dungeon and put me back in the trunk of his car. This was the day, I thought, that young Master would clutch my chinese-made controls and wear my headset again. When we arrived at the Special Prosecutor's office, he left me there, turned out the lights and left. The only light in the office came from a computer monitor, tuned to the "Ebay: Sell an item" page. I went into sleep mode, relieved to be in a clean place, but now figured it could be a few more days before I went home.

Conaway's Catacombs

After being paraded around for the Courtroom, I was sent to an evidence room in the basement of the Clarence M. Mitchell, Jr. Courhouse. They should just call that place Conaway's Catacombs. I met Frank Conaway. He came over and fondled me one afternoon. His family comes into the Courthouse at all times of the day and night and treat the place like their personal flophouse. The family eats and eats and eats there and never clean up after themselves.

Each night, after the Conaways had finished gorging themselves on the biggest shrimp boxes I had ever seen, they would leave and turn out all the lights. Then, about five minutes later, it was go time and the rodents would appear on cue. THERE ARE RATS THE SIZE OF DOGS IN THAT BUILDING. Hundreds of them! Every night, they drink from the Judge's coffee cups, and lick the keyboards of the clerks computers to eat the crumbs out of them. They urinate in the elevators, and breed on the prosecutor's desks. Every time they came near me, I booted up just to scare them off. God knows how this man Conaway and his family must live in their home. This is the most digusting building I have ever known. Even my controllers, which were made in Guangzhou, China and have seen far worse conditions than I, were scared shitless.

This went on for a few weeks. At long last, I was told by a confiscated cell phone on the 1st of December that a jury had been reached in our trial. We were guilty. I was grateful as I was certain I would receive time served for my incarceration and be back in young Master's clutches within a few days.

Killing Time

The Towson offices of the Special Prosecutor are small and clean. The employees there generally neglected me for months, and I was forced to run diagnostics programs just to keep from going stir crazy. Eveyone handled me carefully and seemed to be impressed by my presence. I was getting used to my newest life as an unutilized piece of office equipment. A month passed, and then a year. Finally, on November 9, 2009, my box was jolted. All of my accesories were inventoried and off I went into the dark trunk of a late model American sedan.

I wondered if this was to be the day of my reunion with young Master. It was not to be.

The next morning, I was brought downtown to what I learned was a building called the Clarence M. Mitchell, Jr. Courthouse. I remembered that name. The employees at the Special Prosecutor's Office always listened to a man on the radio named Clarence Mitchell. I detested Mr. Mitchell's radio program very much, even though it was the only entertainment option made available to me. I considered Mr. Mitchell to be a sell-out. He has a show where he baits the angry people from the suburbs about the failures of Baltimore.

It was fitting that the court building should bear that sellout right-wing agitator's name. It is a hole of hell the likes of which no human being has ever truly experienced. That will be the subject of a later discussion.

In the courtroom, I heard a familiar voice. It belonged to the man with the big office who I came to know as the Special Prosecutor. He was giving opening arguments in a criminal trial against Mom, the mother of young Master! I still could not for the life of me understand what she or I had done to deserve any of this. I was sure Mom would speak up for me and tell the Court that she and I were innocent. She did not.

I stayed boxed for days and got accustomed to being lugged in and out of that Courthouse. Then, on a Tuesday, I was removed from the box and brought before the judge. A clerk placed a tag upon my right side. 12B. I was paraded around to be ogled by a group of about a dozen men and women. When they were done with me, they placed me in the custody of the court. The Prosecutor said to the men and women that I had been purchased with stolen gift cards. When I heard that, I felt so cheap. I would have cried right there, but it would have completely melted down my circuitry. It cannot get any worse than this, I thought. And I had no idea what degradation lay in store for me next...

The Raid

It was a sunny and warm Tuesday morning when I remember the cold frap on the front door. Mom was up, but young Master was not. Suddenly, jack-booted thugs shot the front door down and held Mom at knifepoint demanding to know the launch sequence. Excuse me. I'm sorry, that's a memory from "Commandos: Strikeforce" that I used to play with young Master.

Now that I think about it, it was a very quiet raid. Men carried sandwiches and cold drinks in and out of the house all day. It was all business for the investigators, but it was clear that the family was not happy about their visitors.

Then, someone started shuffling around the Entertainment Center which I had called home for nearly two years. A man put a hand near my blind spot and unplugged me. I remember being placed in a box and felt my external appendages being removed in a careful and deliberate way. A card was taped to my console, a red ribbon wrapped around my waist and I was photographed two times. It was very dark in that box. Humiliated and confused, I went into sleep mode to preserve young Master's precious saved game data. If I had only known that I would never see young Master after that day, I would have done things differently. I never got to say goodbye.

When I awoke, I was still trapped in this corrugated cardboard purgatory. I peeked out one of the handles and I immediately realized I was not in Charm City anymore...

Coming Home

I knew I had struck it rich when my new owner used dozens of $25 gift cards to purchase me. I thought, either this woman is a Best Buy executive or she has many technology-loving friends like herself who understand the importance of owning the lastest game system. When she brought me home and young Master Dixon filled me up with a Need for Speed CD, I knew the good life was just getting started.

Weeks and months passed. Master Dixon played me from sunup to sundown and received many stern warnings from Mom on various occasions. He played me right through church, right through 5 entire schooldays and two great summers. Mom wasn't around very much, as she had a City to run. So, Master Dixon and I spent the time wisely, getting to know each others likes and dislikes, favorite sports and ice cream flavors (mine is pentium chip).

On June 17, 2008, my life changed forever...

My Story

Sheila Dixon won't talk about her experiences. But I will tell you about mine. My brothers and sisters and I were born in 2005 in Hokkaido, Japan. I came to the Port of Baltimore in 2006 with a bright future. I was a top-of-the-line gaming system and I knew I was destined for greatness. I thought some kid would break the world record of "Need for Speed" on me! Little did I know that I would end up an internet sensation and a prisoner of the Office of the Special Prosecutor. Stay tuned for my story...