Dear Cormac,
I know you’re a busy
man, what with your endless self-promotion and all, so let’s just get down to
business. I need you to do a job for me. Some too-bit
redneck ran off with my briefcase full of money, and the psychopath I hired to
find him has turned out to be unstable. I need you to find the
redneck and the psychopath and kill them for me. I believe the
standard fee in a case like this is five thousand dollars.
Now, I’m a little short
on funds right now on account of that briefcase had most of my money in it, and
I won’t get paid again until a week from Thursday, BUT, I’d be willing to give
you twenty five dollars up front and the remaining four thousand nine hundred
and seventy five upon receipt of the briefcase (It’s black and it has a couple
of clasps and a handle. There should be money inside.), and the two
bullet-riddled corpses. It’s a tough job, but I know you can handle
it.
I know you can handle it
because I read Blood Meridian. That book could only have
been written by a stone-cold sicko.
I don’t mean to
criticize your work or anything, but yuck! I assume you put a lot of
yourself into your characters and, well, I don’t know how to end this sentence
without offending you. The last thing I want is to cause your crazy
ass to come after me! Ha Ha.
Besides your characters,
another problem I had with your book was the setting. Too
dusty.
Also the plot was no
good.
What if, instead of a
gang of Indian killers and outlaws roaming the old west slaughtering babies and
whatnot, you wrote about a band of sorority sisters working at a candy
store! Now that’s a story I could get into! Also, how
about throwing a love story into the mix? What if Judge Holden fell
in love with a sexy Mexican maid or something? Jennifer Lopez could
play her in the movie version, opposite Ben Affleck. Wouldn’t you
like to see those two get back together? I know I would. By
the way, feel free to use any of these ideas the next time your publisher
issues a reprint. Just remember to give me credit and a share of the
royalties.
Also, let me know if you
want to take the hired-killer job. Scratch that. If you
want the job, don’t tell me. I don’t want to be connected to the
actual crime. How about this? If I don’t hear back from
you before a week from Thursday, I’ll start checking my mailbox for
bullet-riddled corpses.
Oh, I almost forgot to
give you the name of the redneck. Her name is Shirley. Technically
she didn’t steal my briefcase full of money. It was actually my
prized album collection. I know what you’re thinking, and don’t worry about the
money. Those albums are extremely valuable. I’m talking
about the Jim Neighbor’s Christmas Album, the original Alvin
and the Chipmunks Sing the Blues, and a compilation featuring Men at Work
and that band that sang “Oh Mickey, you’re so fine. You’re so fine,
you blow my mind. Hey Mickey!” I took very good care of
them. Only a few are scratched, and one of my Pat Benatar albums got
warped after I left it in the trunk of my car for a couple of years. The
rest are pristine. I could totally pawn the bunch and easily make
the four thousand nine hundred and seventy five bucks I’m gonna owe you. You’d
be a fool not to take this job!
There is no psychopath
by the way. Well, except for you. So, just take care of
Shirley for me and you can owe me that extra bullet-riddled corpse. See? This
job is getting easier all the time.
Watch out for Shirley,
though. No man can resist her charms. But she’s evil, I
tell you. She made fun of my genitalia! Here's what she looks
like: she’s brunette, a little over four feet tall, and she weighs four hundred
and fifty pounds. She also has a giant mole on her lip in the
shape of Nebraska. You can’t miss her.
If you decide to pass on
this job, be sure to let me know by next Thursday, so I can go to my safety
killer. You might know him. His name is Anton Sugar, or
something like that. I’m worried he’s not up to the task
though. He has a funny-looking haircut that makes it extremely
difficult to take him seriously.
OK. That’s it
for now.
Your Pal,
Christamar
Varicella
P.S. What kind of name
is Cormac? Was your dad a magician or something? If not,
I’m pretty sure you made that name up. It’s OK though, my
name sounds made up too. Christamar means “Christ, a sea!” and
Varicella is Latin, which I don’t even think is a real language.
P.P.S. Since I drafted this letter, Shirley and I
got back together, so ixna on the illka. K?
God, I hope you speak Pig Latin.
Anyway, I’m willing to let you keep the $25 (industry standard) if you’d
be willing to blurb my new book Dinosaur
Ghost. “They’re real and
they’re eating republicans.” Thanks! CV
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