my will

X-Spam-Score: 2.9 (++) X-Spam_score: 2.9 X-Spam_score_int: 29 X-Spam_bar: ++ X-Spam-Report: Spam detection software, running on the system "stodi.digitalkingdom.org", has NOT identified this incoming email as spam. The original message has been attached to this so you can view it or label similar future email. If you have any questions, see the administrator of that system for details. Content preview: my will The Astoria Virtual-Reality Headset Astoria-VR uses the processing-power of your mobile-device to give you a 3-Dimensional Virtual-Reality experience! It provides a 360-degree viewing-experience and will work with ANY-smartphone. [...] Content analysis details: (2.9 points, 5.0 required) pts rule name description ---- ---------------------- -------------------------------------------------- 0.0 URIBL_BLOCKED ADMINISTRATOR NOTICE: The query to URIBL was blocked. See http://wiki.apache.org/spamassassin/DnsBlocklists#dnsbl-block for more information. [URIs: holdmyvr.com] -0.0 SPF_PASS SPF: sender matches SPF record -0.0 SPF_HELO_PASS SPF: HELO matches SPF record 0.7 MIME_HTML_ONLY BODY: Message only has text/html MIME parts -1.9 BAYES_00 BODY: Bayes spam probability is 0 to 1% [score: 0.0000] 0.0 HTML_MESSAGE BODY: HTML included in message 1.9 RAZOR2_CF_RANGE_E8_51_100 Razor2 gives engine 8 confidence level above 50% [cf: 100] 0.5 RAZOR2_CF_RANGE_51_100 Razor2 gives confidence level above 50% [cf: 100] 0.9 RAZOR2_CHECK Listed in Razor2 (http://razor.sf.net/) 0.8 RDNS_NONE Delivered to internal network by a host with no rDNS 0.0 T_REMOTE_IMAGE Message contains an external image my will

The Astoria Virtual-Reality Headset

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For the first time in months, I fell into a deep, nightmarefree slumber. I dreamed instead about my grandfather as a , about his first night here, a stranger in a strange land, under a strange roof, owing his life to people who spoke a strange tongue. When I awoke, sun streaming through my window, I realized it wasnt just my grandfathers life that Miss Peregrine had saved, but mine, too, and my fathers. Today, with any luck, I would finally get to thank her. I went downstairs to find my dad already bellied up to a table, slurping coffee and polishing his fancy binoculars. Just as I sat down, Kev appeared bearing two plates loaded with mystery meat and fried toast. I didnt know you could fry toast, I remarked, to which Kev replied that there wasnt a food he was aware of that couldnt be improved by frying. Over breakfast, Dad and I discussed our plan for the day. It was to be a kind of scout, to familiarize ourselves with the island. Wed scope out my dads birdwatching spots first and then find the s home. I scarfed my food, anxious to get started. Well fortified with grease, we left the pub and walked through town, dodging tractors and shouting to each other over the din of generators until the streets gave way to fields and the noise faded behind us. It was a crisp and blustery daythe sun hiding behind giant cloudbanks only to burst out moments later and dapple the hills with spectacular rays of lightand I felt energized and hopeful. We were heading for a rocky beach where my dad had spotted a bunch of birds from the ferry. I wasnt sure how we would reach it, thoughthe island was slightly bowl shaped, with hills that climbed toward its edges only to drop off at precarious seaside cliffsbut at this particular spot the edge had been rounded off and a path led down to a minor spit of sand along the water.

We picked our way down to the beach, where what seemed to be an entire civilization of birds were flapping and screeching and fishing in tide pools. I watched my fathers eyes widen. Fascinating, he muttered, scraping at some petrified guano with the stubby end of his pen. Im going to need some time here. Is that all right Id seen this look on his face before, and I knew exactly what some time meant: hours and hours. Then Ill go find the house by myself, I said. Not alone, you arent. You promised. Then Ill find a person who can take me. Who Kev will know someone. My dad looked out to sea, where a big rusted lighthouse jutted up from a pile of rocks. You know what the answer would be if your mom were here, he said. My parents had differing theories about how much parenting I required. Mom was the enforcer, always hovering, but Dad hung back a little. He thought it was important that I make my own mistakes now and then. Also, letting me go would free him to play with guano all day. Okay, he said, but make sure you leave me the number of whoever you go with. Dad, nobody here has phones. He sighed. Right. Well, as long as theyre reliable. * * * Kev was out running an errand, and because asking one of his drunken regulars to chaperone me seemed like a bad idea, I went into the nearest shop to ask someone who was at least gainfully employed. The door read FISHMONGER. I pushed it open to find myself cowering before a bearded giant in a bloodsoaked apron. He left off decapitating fish to glare at me, dripping cleaver in hand, and I vowed never again to discriminate against the intoxicated. What the hell for he growled when I told him where I wanted to go. Nothing over there but bogland and barmy weather. I explained about my grandfather and the s home. He frowned at me, then leaned over the counter to cast a doubtful glance at my shoes. I spose Dylan aint too busy to take you, he said, pointing his cleaver at a kid about my age who was arranging fish in a freezer case, but youll be wantin proper footwear. Wouldnt do to let you go in them trainersmudll suck em right off! Really I said. Are you sure Dylan! Fetch our man here a pair of Wellingtons! The kid groaned and made a big show of slowly closing the freezer case and cleaning his hands before slouching over to a wall of shelves packed with dry goods. Just so happens weve got some good sturdy boots on offer, the fishmonger said. Buy one get none free! He burst out laughing and slammed his cleaver on a salmon, its head shooting across the bloodslicked counter to land perfectly in a little guillotine bucket.

Its his stage name, Dylan explained. Were the sickest rapping duo in Wales, Worm said. Im MC Worm, and this is the Sturgeon Surgeon, aka Emcee Dirty Dylan, aka Emcee Dirty Bizniss, Cairnholms number one beatboxer. Wanna show this Yank how we do, Dirty D Dylan looked annoyed. Now Drop some nextlevel beats, son! Dylan rolled his eyes but did as he was asked. At first I thought he was choking on his tongue, except there was a rhythm to his sputtering coughs,puhh, puhCHAH, puhpuhhh, puhCHAHover which Worm began to rap. I likes to get wrecked up down at the Priest Hole / Your dads always there cause hes on the dole / My rhymes is tight, yeah I make it look easy / Dylans beats are hot like chicken jalfrezi! Dylan stopped. That dont even make sense, he said. And its your dad whos on the dole. Oh shit, Dirty D let the beat drop! Worm started beatboxing while doing a passable robot, his sneakers twisting holes in the gravel. Take the mic, D! Dylan seemed embarrassed but let the rhymes fly anyway. I met a tight bird and her name was Sharon / She was keen on my tracksuit and the trainers I was wearin / I showed her the time, like Doctor Who / I thunk up this rhyme while I was in the loo! Worm shook his head. The loo I wasnt ready! They turned to me and asked what I thought. Considering that they didnt even like each others rapping, I wasnt sure what to say. I guess Im more into music with, like, singing and guitars and stuff. Worm dismissed me with a wave of his hand. He wouldnt know a dope rhyme if it bit him in the bollocks, he muttered. Dylan laughed and they exchanged a series of complex, multistage handshakefistbumphighfives.

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