Some say his buttocks should be classified as one of the wonders of the world and that on rare occasions, he actually has blood in his nanite-stream...

All we know is, he's called MadMikeMarsbergen!

"Hey there, you sexy bastard.

My son tells me you responded to his letter last month in a manner that, to be quite frank, I'm not entirely happy with. I mean the least you could've done was to include some arsenic in your reply and I'd have been rid of the little prick for good.

Anyway, please find enclosed the requested pictures. As you can see I've had one or two "modifications..." I hope these are to your liking."

—Yours, Some Slutty Milf

OWOOOOOO. RUFF RUFF RUFF. HUBBA HUBBA. YAYA HOOCHIE MAMA.

Ahem, sorry, milady. I just couldn't help myself. Those pictures are exactly what a man like me needs as I write from the lonely confines of a prison cell. The last person I had sex with was a bar of soap and a modified showerhead. Those nano-tits are grade-DD—I've got nanites in my nuts, which allows me to cum twice in quick succession. And I love the clit ring. Did it hurt? I was thinking of getting a Prince Albert, myself, and maybe a Prince Harry after that, depending on how the Alby goes. If you don't know what a Harry is, it's a crucifix dangling from a chain that's held in place by a stud on each of your balls. I hear the ladies love it when it swings back and forth and clips them in the hood while you're nailing them from behind.

Anyway, you want some arsenic for your bratty son? I'll see what the big dogs in here can do. We might have to settle for some anthrax, though. If you see another letter for the Kid, don't open it. When I get out in ten years for soliciting sex from a cop's K-9 partner, we can start a new life, you and I, Slutty Milf. We'll get married. You can become Slutty MadMikeMarsbergen. Or Slutty Milf-MadMikeMarsbergen—I won't be offended if you want to keep your maiden name, baby.

Keep your legs closed for me, girl. Daddy's coming home soon.

"MadMike, it's S.'s father writing to you. S. had a nervous breakdown after your last letter. As I understand it, you provided him with a pro-bono therapy session and it proved too much for his fragile mind to handle. We had to send him away for treatment at The Micrite Society for the Mentally Unhinged when he tried to cook and eat me and the boy's mother, calling us "cucks who cluck like chickens." I'm worried about him and even more worried about how he'll cope in this nuthouse. Do you have any experience there? Any kind words you can pass onto S.? Thank you greatly. I'm a huge fan."

—D. Richards, S.'s father

Hello, D. I'm sorry to hear about S. going bonkers. I should have seen this coming, as I knew he was fucking insane and I just keep needling him further, trying to push him over the edge. What can I say? It was fun and I felt safe here in prison. I didn't think of his friends and family getting caught in the crossfire, because, to be perfectly honest, I didn't think he had any friends and family. I'm truly sorry he tried to cook and eat you and your wife. No fork-related wounds, I hope?

The Micrite Society, eh? I've been there, yeah—they use relatively experimental nano-neurological procedures, actually using nanites to modify brain patterns and sometimes even physically modifying the structures of the brain with nanoparticles. Those little bastards are powerful and very creative. I actually had a second frontal lobe grown on my first one when I was there, which is why I have such a large forehead. D., don't worry. S. will be fine. They've got the best brain doctors there. Tell S. I hope he had a nice Cuckmas and I look forward to coaxing him into committing serious crimes soon—when he's cured of his condition, of course. Keep me posted! And keep on reading!

"Dear Mike,

If there were a giant robot crisis, could we engineer a robot disease and kill all the robots with nanotechnology? Also, would said robot disease effectively destroy my ex-boyfriend's Ram 350? What about a paintball gun, do you think that would wreck it? He has a cat too . . . Moreover, could we engineer a human disease with nanotechnology? Like a robot cancer, but for lying cheating bastards? Like a robot cancer that makes your stupid horny little dick fall off?"

—The Other Other Woman

Hey, Other Other, you sexy thang. Good to hear Xayder is finally out of the picture. It was really not good for my heart to shag you around his schedule.

Giant robots? You talkin' about that fifty-foot vibrator I got you for Valentine's Day, babe? Just joking. You wouldn't want that thing taken out of commission. But, yeah, we definitely could kill all the robo-bastards with nanites—and anything else we can think of. All we gotta do is program the little buggers and they'll head off in unison and bugger the shit out of anything we want. So Xayder himself could get buggered harder than you were by me two years ago, when we flew to Cancun for a week because they had a deep discount on ultra-glide lubricants. Remember that?

His Ram 350 is still intact? That prick. I never told you, babe, but I pissed in the gas tank one night on my way home from my Narconon meeting. It was supposed to explode, but I guess that toothless nut on the corner of Noster and Jagoff lied to me. When I get out of here I'll pay him a visit and knock some rocks into his gums, I think...

If you've got a paintball gun, don't shoot it at the truck—shoot it into the gas tank. I've been doing some reading here in the big house, and my perusing of The D-Bag's Guide to Vandalism, Misdemeanours and Elementary Chemistry leads me to believe paint would do a better job than urine.

If you want Xayder's little two-inch wiener-winder to come off, just take some scissors to it. They're doing great things with scissors these days, I hear.

Send me some photos, babe. Daddy needs his sexy back.

"Hey Michael,

I was going to address this to "Mad Mike" as the cutout said, but I think your real name is probably Michael and I'm in need of a real, serious and not-mad guy right now. Here's the deal. So I had this really nasty wife once, and, well, she was horrible and one time couldn't make it home in time to make dinner for her, so she attacked me and cut my, you know, off. Yeah. Bye bye. Anyway, that's cool, as I've met a new girl now. Her name is Victoria. I'm taking her on a date later but she just texted me saying I should be prepared as she wants to "do the bad thing," and now I'm scared Michael, because, what if she finds out I don't have a penis? I heard you know a lot about NanoTech and stuff, do you possibly know anybody who can quickly make a new, shiny one for me? Please? Like Adam Jenson or something.

Thanks in advance."

—Penis-less in Pittsburgh

First off, Penis-less: nut the fuck up, brother. A man is more than what's between his legs, unless he's a male porn star. If Victoria gets pissy 'cause you're a Ken doll, then slip a finger in her snatch and two up her ass and show her she don't need the D no more. But if you're serious about wanting a nano-cock, call my guy. His name's Niner and he can hook you up with a shiny new wang. Be warned: it'll vibrate while you sleep, so you might need to get some sleeping pills off my other guy, Aces High, and they'll knock you right out.

Make me proud, brother.

"Yo MadMike,

I really appreciate that there is a whole Tevun-Krus issue for NanoPunk. I think it's underrepresented in science fiction. What is your stance on the tiny robot slave issue? I myself have over a thousand, but since they are curing my hemorrhoids I have them on doctor's prescription. I'm not sure what the doctor did actually, but I'm pretty sure it involves tiny robot slaves. I mean I could just ask you on Monday but that would've been awkward. Because of the hemorrhoids. And the slaves. 'Kay, catch you later, man."

—DirtyDan from work

What up, Dingaling Dan? Long time no see, brohawk! Sorry to hear about the anal prolapse. I've been having a fair bit of that myself, here in prison. You're lucky to have the nanites fixing your hole, as I've just been tucking it back in when it falls out my rear end. Not fun when you try to sit down and end up accidentally sitting on your rectum.

Anyway, to answer your question: I'm all for tiny robot slaves. They do the dirty work no one else wants to do. Shit, if I had an army of tiny robot slaves, I'd be the king of this shit-sty. The other cons would be eating their teeth out of my fist and then I'd probably make them blow me, too.

Yo, Dan-O... Think you can send me a few nanites in a little envelope, or something, man? They self-replicate, so I only need a couple. Please send aid. I'm not sure how much more I can take of this.

"ummm hey howdy... wut do i doo if i axidently ingectid my gurlfreind with nanoparticals ??? shes ded"
—Dick Burns, Esq., Attorney at Law

You get yourself a new fucking job, Dick. Why are you out there, and I'm in here? This shit ain't fair, man. And I swear, if you send me another letter about how you're abusing your girlfriend, I'll come and kill you with a fucking pineapple when my sentence is up. Fucking Christ. Accidentally injected her with nanoparticles, man? What, did you trip and the syringe slipped into her vein and a breeze plunged those robots into her system? Fucking ha, Dick. I just told the guard what you did. He says he's calling the cops, so get ready, asshole. Time to meet your maker.

"Dear MadMikeMarsbergen,

I have accidentally genetically engineered a real-life Gremlin and it has eaten my shitzu. It made me watch. The power is out, my phone is dead, and I'm trapped in here. Right now it's still cute but please send help before midnight."

—Sincerely, Monsanto

Go to hell, Monty. You still owe me for the GMO sweet corn I ate that gave me stomach cancer. And that strain of potato you engineered to grow rusty nails inside it. That shit hurt. So my advice to you is that you should take your Gremlin and shove it up your ass and see what happens. Write to me next month, Dearly Beloved Reader!

"Dear Mister Mad Mike

Now I'm afraid this is a little embarrassing and I trust you will keep this matter private for does it not state in Section 2, Sub-Section XVII.IX, 'your shit ain't anyone's business but mine.'?

But I digress... I recently engaged in a little extra-marital activity, if you catch my drift... Sorry, I'm hearing voices and I think those voices have everything to do with the harlot with whom I spent last Tuesday night, and most of Wednesday. For you see, my good man, I do believe she was not entirely human.

Now I know, I know, but please do hear me out. At some point between the first time and the last time she actually bit my scrotum and punctured the skin, and it is my firm belief that in doing so she released thousands upon thousands of teeny-tiny robots into my ball-sac.

Since then, my wife claims I've given her, and I quote, "a shitload of orgasms you dirty, dirty bastard," and to be honest I'm worried, quite frankly, as to what will happen when those teeny tiny robots decide I'm no longer worthy of their time and leave me for a younger more virile model, much like I'm almost certain my wife will, too, shortly thereafter...

Quite the quandary, I'm sure you'll agree.

Yours in absolute secrecy."

—A. Famous-Personage

Well, this is awkward. A., be very, very honest with me here—was the harlot you banged black-haired, prone to screaming in a German accent and liked to run her tongue around your foreskin because it tastes salty? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you were with my cousin. She gives great head, but one thing you don't want to do is put it in her yayo. That's how the "disease" gets spread. I'm sorry, A., but your prognosis isn't good. It's likely they'll leave you in five years or so. I know exactly how you feel.

Goddamnit, is it ever lonely in this place.