Letter 4

Dear [adult swim],

My friend came up to me yesterday and asked if it was true that you and I had a correspondence, and if so, why hadn't I mentioned it. He seemed to think that I was keeping it a secret so that he wouldn't butt in and totally embarrass me, which is of course 100% true.

Apparently it is getting around that you and I "talk." Now my friends are all like, "Tell [adult swim] about me, but make me sound cool," and, "Wow, that [adult swim] is totally hot. Can you introduce me?" and, "[adult swim] owes me 18 bucks for walking out on a bar tab."

I've tried to explain to all of them that a "correspondence" is when two people write to each other, back and forth, and is generally regarded as "healthy." What you and I have, or more correctly, what I have, is better defined as "making a nuisance of myself," and is generally considered to be pathetic.

So I explain this to my friend and he says, "Well, the next time you're making a nuisance of yourself tell [adult swim] about me.

Here is his story:

My friend, whose name is Sugar, is kinda smart. In knowing that he's kinda smart he thought it would be wise to go into medicine to learn how to help people and to make shitloads of cash.

One day, ere his graduation was approaching, an incredibly gorgeous woman came up to him in a parking lot. "Aren't I totally hot?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"My name is Ambrosia," she said as a tear escaped and ran down her face, "And you will make wonderful love to me now."
"But I'm married," Sugar said.

Without making any counter argument Ambrosia tore open her shirt to reveal the two most perfect boobs the Lord ever created. Sugar was hypnotized. With the gravity of a collapsed neutron star Sugar's face was pulled into her cleavage.

They made wonderful love for ten days. In that time Sugar had two heart attacks that almost spoiled the moment, but thanks to his medical training he was able to perform CPR on himself and continue fulfilling Ambrosia's desire.

On the tenth day Ambrosia said, "We are finished." Then she stood up and put her clothes back on.
"But why?" Sugar asked. To this he received no answer.
"Tell my husband," she said as she pulled out a knife, "That I love him." Then she stabbed herself in the boob and died.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" a voice howled like a wolf in the distance. At first Sugar thought he had made the sound. Then he realized he was naked in a parking lot and had been for ten days.

As he began to dress he heard a sound like a man running, crying, and growling at the same time. Sugar leisurely buttoned his shirt and wondered how stabbing herself in the boob had actually caused Ambrosia to perish. As he went to tuck in his shirt he realized that he still wasn't wearing any pants and that a crazed bald man was clearly running in his general direction.

"No, no, no, no, no," said the man as he jumped down next to her and picked her head up into his arms. "No, my Ambrosia, you cannot be dead."

Sugar watched this peculiar little man curiously and began to button his shirt again before he realized it was already buttoned. Then he remembered he was not wearing any pants. He looked around the lot where his car was. Then he found them. His pants were under the dead body of his ten day lover.

"Oh why?" the little man moaned. "Why, my ever-faithful, always true Ambrosia; why did you die?"
"Excuse me," Sugar said.
"Whu?" the man said, starttled. "Oh, I didn't see you there, sir. Forgive me, for my love, my wife, has died, here in this parking lot, that smells pretty bad, like adults that have not showered."
"Not a problem," Sugar said. "Could you move the lady? She's lying on my pants."
"What?" he said, looking at the pants beneath her. "How did that happen?"
"No idea," Sugar said as he pulled the pants free from under her.
"And why are you not wearing these pants?" the man asked.

Sugar paused. His eyes widened. Now was his opportunity to confess; to bear his conscience clean; to tell the horrible truth. "They fell off," Sugar said. "Yeah, I was over there, in that parking lot on the other side of the lake, when they just dropped right off."

The husband looked perplexed. "Then the wind picked them up," Sugar continued, "And they flew all the way over here. They must have landed on the ground right before your hot wife died."
"What about your underwear?" the man asked. "Did they fall off too?"
"Oh," Sugar said, looking down. "Yes, they did. They should be around here somewhere."

They searched around for a few moments. "Here they are," the husband said, "In my wife's front pocket."
"Oh," Sugar said with a nervous laugh. "She must've seen them on the ground and picked them up. You know, to keep the parking lot clean."

Sugar unrolled the underwear and found a pair of women's panties bundled within. "I believe these are hers," Sugar said, handing the panties to the man. "Lace makes me itch."

The man was nonplussed. He looked at Sugar, who was only just making himself decent with underwear. He looked at the wad of red, lace panties in his hand. He looked at his clothed, but very dead wife.

"Sir," he said imploringly to Sugar, giant tears streaming from his eyes, "Can you please help me to understand what has happened here?"
Sugar pulled his belt tight and fastened it. Then he looked at the man. "Well, it looks like your wife died. That's my medical opinion."
"You're a doctor?" the man said. "Can you please save her?"
"Well, I'm not exactly a doctor," Sugar said. "I'm a nurse practitioner. We're the wave of the future. Doctors are so uncaring and insensitive. Not to mention expensive. A nurse practitioner can do just about anything a doctor can do, and we care."
"I'll give you a billion dollars if you save my wife," the man said.
"I'm sure I can do something," Sugar said and knelt down beside the man and the dead Ambrosia. He put his fingers to her throat to find a pulse. He looked at her eyes for dilation. Finally he jiggled the knife sticking out of her breast.
"A billion dollars, huh?" Sugar asked.
"Yes, only if you can save her."
"Oh, I'm pretty sure I can save her," he said, "But it may take some time."
"Take all the time you need," the man said with sudden hope.
"Yeah, well, I'll have to work round the clock. Can I get an advance on that billion?"
"Is one million dollars sufficient?"
"Hmmm," Sugar pondered, "It's a good start. Of course, I'll need to take the body back to my house so I can work on her."
"Oh," the little man sounded disheartened. "I don't like being separated from her."
"Well, I can't do my job with you leering over my shoulder. Do you want me to save your wife or not?"

Twenty minutes later Sugar was driving home, whistling a jaunty tune with a million dollars in his pocket and a dead bombshell in his trunk.

signed
August 25, 2006

Ps. I had to stop the story prematurely. It was getting way too long for my sloppy handwriting. I should be able to finish the story of Sugar in the next letter... or two.