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easily, weak human pestilence hand,” replied the Intelligentsia officer, triumphantly sliding a single sheet of paper across the table. “First you will confess to being a Yankee dog imperialist spy, and to countless atrocities against innocent citizens of the Empire.”
    ‘ What atrocities?’ the hand signed.
    “ Lots of atrocities and other bad stuff, including trespassing across the border,” answered the Intelligentsia officer, slapping the hand. “I’ll fill in the blanks later, you insolent wart-laden toad. Admit your guilt!”
    ‘ Yes, I did lots of bad stuff!’ signed the hand desperately. ‘I confess.’
    “ I tire of your shameless sniveling,” advised the Intelligentsia offer, taking a break. “I’ll be back. When I return, I’ll have your full confession in writing. Stupid hand.”
     
    * * * * *
     
    Left alone, the hand scribbled a note on the sheet of paper. ‘Up yours. I’ll kill you all.’ He folded the paper into a long flat stick, then wedged the tip between the handcuff’s ratchet teeth and the lever spring inside the bar. The bar easily swung open. The hand climbed to a barred window, then up through an air shaft to freedom. Stupid spiders. They will pay.
    In stealth mode outside, the fugitive hand hitched a ride, hanging onto the mangy underside of Hargundu, a self-employed postal camel. Thanks to previous connection with the vast ATM Network, the hand was knowledgeable about many subjects. Once a week, postal spiders loaded Hargundu with mail and care packages destined for the mountainous Autonomous Tribal District, known as the Roof of the World.
    Primitive aboriginal spiders inhabited the high mountain plateau, evicted from their homeland on Arthropoda by the Empire to make way for a massive hydroelectric project. To this day tribal members shunned production and use of electricity in protest of the injustice.
    The ‘Wild Ones’ lived a primitive Stone Age life, and it cost them. Though they may be a throwback of the spider race, the tribe would not tolerate being thrown away. Wild Ones preserved their culture, and for that were admired by spider society. Studied by anthropologists and protected by treaty, they lived a simple life in mud huts. Naked to the world, they hunted with rock-tipped spears and walked bare-clawed. Tourists were prohibited from trespassing on the plateau, for fear of contaminating their egalitarian utopia.
     
    * * * * *
     
    At Taholah, the first stop on Hargundu’s route, villagers rushed get mail from the beloved camel. Chief Stone-Claw passed out junk mail and welfare checks. A box of cell phones was eagerly distributed. There was no cell phone service, but the primitive spiders greatly enjoyed taking pictures and listening to music. He released a sack of cats, discarded from the recent pet cat fad in New Gobi City. Wild Ones scrambled wildly in all directions, chasing and clubbing cats for dinner.
    The hand emerged from the saddle bag. Startled, Chief Stone-Claw drew his battle ax. He wearily circled the monstrous aberration, fearing attack. The hand moved subtly with the chief, giving him the one-fingered salute. Fascinated villagers returned the one-fingered salute, recognizing its phallic significance as an obvious sign of good luck. They knelt down in respect, hoping to get lucky tonight.
    Chief Stone-Claw knelt too, not wanting to be voted out of office by the fickle rabble so early in his first term. This odd alien visitor required study and deliberation before he risked bucking public opinion. Surely there was a reason the Empire sent this creature with the mail. He’d kill it later.
     
    * * * * *
     
    The hand clicked its fingers, its way of ‘seeing’ by echo location, similar to a bat’s radar. The crowd imitated the clicking, swaying back and forth in unison to the rhythm. Hoping to communicate, and possibly obtain greater inner meaning and world peace, spiders adjusted their translation software devices for sign language.
     
    * * *