Letter 5

Dear [adult swim],

I am worried that my last letter might have given you the impression that Sugar is only motivated by money. It would be unfair for you think such a thing without knowing him for a lot longer. Perhaps at the end of this letter you will better understand his complex personality. I still don't understand the bastard and he's been one of my dearest friends since high school.

CONTINUATION:

Sugar knew exactly what he was going to do. He'd toss the dead lady in one of his meat freezers and he'd toss the million in a high yield, low risk bank account. When the husband finally came looking for him Sugar would express his deepest condolences for failing to resuscitate her, then offer to pay back the full million. Hopefully the kind man, seeing that sugar had given his very best, and being distraught at his loss, would rebuke the money and insist that Sugar keep it. But if he did take it back Sugar would still have the interest it had accrued, which, depending on how long it took the poor whelp to find Sugar, could be enough for a nice vacation home.

Sugar had it planned perfectly; where to put the money and where to put the body, but as any married man knows, there is no plan, no matter how sublime, that a good wife can't totally cock up.

Sugar drove along, happy as a clam, day dreaming about where his summer home might be. He hummed and giggled, and allowed his heart to race just a little bit. Then as he pulled into his driveway his wife came walking out the front door-arms folded, face red as the very devil-and Sugar felt his heart stop dead, then drop straight into his designer pants.

"Where have you been?" she asked in a voice that cannot adequately be described as angry.

Sugar had no idea what to say. He wasn't entirely certain how long he'd been gone. He only knew that his heart hadn't started beating again, and he was suddenly ravenously hungry. "John asked me to pull a double-shift," he said.
"A DOUBLE...!" she shouted. "You've been gone for TEN days."
"Ten?" he said, more to himself. "Wow. That's... impressive."
"Impressive?"
"Well," he stammered. "I mean, I seriously must have lost track of time."
"You lost track of ten days? How am I supposed to believe that? How am I supposed to believe any thing you say to me now?" At this point Sugar's wife had calmed down to being furious. Sad and angry tears rolled down her face.
"I don't know what to say, sweetheart," he said. "I should have called."
"You should have called?" she yelled. "And said what? 'Hunny, I'll be staying at work for the next ten days. Don't wait up.' Do you think I'd have believed you?"
"I..."
"No," Hunny interrupted, "You've been with a woman."
"I have not."
"How long have you been planning this?"
"What?"
"How long have you been planning this get away? Are there suitcases in the trunk?"
"What? No!"
"Then let me see," she said. "If you want me to even begin to believe that anything you have told me is true, open the trunk."

Sugar's eyes widened and his body went cold. He would never be able to explain a dead woman with a knife in her tit. His wife would call the cops. He'd be divorced and in jail before nightfall. He didn't even know the husband's name. There'd be no one to confirm his story.

His hands started to sweat. "I won the lottery."
There was a pause as his wife stared at him open mouthed. "What?" she said, as though she honestly had not heard him.
"I won the lottery," he said and pulled a wad of cash from his pocket. He thrust it out and she instinctively took the loot. "There's more in the car. It's a million all told."
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I," he said.
"We won the lottery?" she said, growing excited.
"I could hardly believe it myself," he said smiling. "I was so dumbfounded I drove around in a daze. I only came to my senses today."
"Well why didn't you say so?" Hunny cooed.
"Well," Sugar said, "I didn't want us to go crazy and spend it all. I think we should just put it in a savings account and sit on it for a while. We'll have fun with the interest."
"Like Hell," she said. "You're taking me on vacation. As it happens I have my bags packed. I was getting ready to go to Mother's. I'll go get them and you can show me what's in the trunk."

She ran inside and in a flash Sugar opened the trunk and pulled out Ambrosia's corpse. He flung her over his shoulder and ran to the side of the house. There he tossed her on the ground and looked in the side window. His wife was almost to the front door. Quickly he kicked leaves over the body and threw a few fire logs on top. Then he ran to the door in time to help his wife with her bags.

"Hunny, don't you think we should make some plans and reservations before we..."
"No," she said in a cold, deep voice. "You owe me a vacation. I'm thinking at least eleven days. Don't you think?"
"Yes dear," he said. I wasn't there when this happened, but to this day when he tells this part his shoulders sink and he gives a deep sigh.

On their way out of town Sugar convinced Hunny to stop at a used bookstore to spend some of their new money on some light reading for the trip. She got a romantic novel and a travel guide to Florida. Sugar got Advanced Cybernetic Robotics, Alchemy and Your Body, and How to Raise Your Dead Lover After Weeks of Rotting Outside Your Home While You Were Away in Florida. They really were some lucky finds.

Michael
September 8, 2006

Ps. The white pouring from Ambrosia's breast in the picture is not supposed to be milk. I had kicked around the idea of milk spewing forth, or of Ambrosia "milking" to death, but that really seemed to reduce this tragic story to something less than serious and quite apart from the truth, which this totally is.

No, the white is my artistic rendering of the blood pouring from Ambrosia's wound. Red didn't work because it was too fake looking. Everyone knows that the blood would seep into the green shirt and the colors would mix, not to mention that after an hour or two in the car the blood would have dried to a deep brown or black. But every time I tried to draw the blood as brown or black it looked equally unrealistic, and like I was too stupid to realize blood was, afterall, red. So it's white. If you don't like it... eat it.

Pps. I probably shouldn't say "eat it" to someone, or something, that I would like to consider me for a job. However, I also know that this letter will not likely go to a hiring manager. If it is even read before it gets thrown away it will be read by an inturn or a paid lackey. Bearing that in mind... If you don't like the white blood you can Super Eat It!