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Selected-By: "Tim Chew" <twchew@mindspring.com>

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply.
Your question was:

Oh Oracle most wise,

How can I get out of this web of lies?

Yes, it all started out so simply, didn't it? You know, if you'd just confessed right away, it wouldn't have been so bad. Sure, your neighbours would have been upset, and so would the Better Business Bureau, and that cop with the prosthetic arm, but they would have gotten over it eventually. Besides, they can't *really* bar you from the public swimming pools for life.

But no, you thought you could get away with it if you just found a ringer to replace the camel. So you ordered all the necessary supplies from an outfit with a P.O. box in Nebraska, judiciously applied a little leather dye to the replacement camel's haunches, set up the anonymous remailer, and waited for it all to blow over. Except you had forgotten about the kid, and when you tried to bribe her with candy it turned out that she was diabetic, so you had to find another way of getting her to keep her mouth shut about what she saw that day behind the drugstore. And it transpired that there really *was* somebody named Floyd Thimblemute living on Maple Street in Duluth, and his wife started asking some very pointed questions. Meanwhile, the replacement camel got caught in a rainstorm outside of Lansing, and the dye washed off, leaving a glaringly obvious trail along the sidewalk and blue streaks down the camel's legs. When you tried to claim that this was merely a symptom of a rare but benign form of Bactrian cyanophilous titubation, you discovered that the crossing guard actually had a degree in veterinary medicine from North Carolina State University, so that was the end of *that* little ruse. Not that it would have done you any good, because Mrs. Thimblemute had hired a private investigator who was sitting in the blue Dumpster the whole time, making notes.

So, you may be thinking that the best thing to do now would be to give yourself up and come clean. And that would be the right thing to do if the private investigator hadn't already dug up a copy of the transcript of your conversation with the ticket agent at El Al. So if you confess now, the whole sordid business with the junk bonds and the African parakeets will be all over the papers by Tuesday morning.

The only thing to do, then, is to buy a bus ticket to Montreal under an assumed name. Then, while the private investigator is getting interrogated at the border by Israeli agents disguised as Quebec immigration officers, you, who didn't even get on the bus in the first place, hitchhike to Tucson and get a job at the Dairy Queen on Fifth Avenue. All you have to do then is lie doggo until you've saved up enough money for a little plastic surgery. After that, you're home free... just don't go to the circus when it comes to town, because the camel will be able to recognize you by your smell.

You owe the Oracle the key to the safe deposit box you rented in Floyd's name.