Letter 6

Dear [adult swim],

I contemplated not telling you any more of Sugar's story this time. Actually, I thought about not telling you any more althogether. See, a guy approached me on the street and said he knew the truth about Sugar, and that he was going to turn me in as an accomplice to collect the reward money. I told him I had no idea what he was talking about and he showed me photocopied versions of the letters I had sent you. Then he said, "A friend of mine works at [adult swim] and he gave me these letters. He also showed me some magnificently drawn pictures. Drawings so beautiful and breath-taking that they could only have been drawn by a person intimately involved in the sordid affair."

At first I felt betrayed by you. I was crushed that you had shared these secretive tales that I hazardously shared with you so hazardously with a complete stranger, who happened to be a friend. Then it occurred to me that this guy knew too much. Not only did he know the story, and claim to have seen the splendor of the drawings, but he knew what I looked like. There is no way he could possibly have known this. I have never sent you pictures of me, and I have never described myself to you. The only way he could have known how I look is if you told him, and the only way you could have known is if you had been stalking me. then I realized how incredibly paranoid that sounded and I laughed out loud to myself.

This complete stranger continued to talk, but I don't know what he was saying because I was laughing out loud. Finally he interrupted me. "Why are you laughing?" he asked.
"Becuase," said I, "For a moment I thought you were telling the truth."
"But I am telling the truth," he said.
I almost got scared all over again, then a clever thought occurred to me. "Of course you would say you are telling the truth. You are a liar."
"But I'm not," he said. "I'm really telling the truth."
"I'm so sure," I said, feeling fairly unsure. "If you are telling me the thruth then what is my name?"
"Are you kidding? You sign it to the bottom of every letter."
"And my address?"
He knew that too. He knew my wife's name, my kids' names, even my pets' names, which I know I never told you.

Beads of sweat were dripping down my back. It seemed as though this person, falling hopelessly in love with the power of my magnificent writing, had been stalking me for some time, months perhaps, in the hopes of gleaning some of my skill for his own. But, as usually happens with these psycho/schizophrenics, his frustration with not being able to measure up to my tremendous virtuosity in the area of writing had led to anger and then to hatred. And then, clearly, he must have kidnapped someone from [adult swim] and tortured them until they revealed all of the information he could use about me.

Then it occurred to me; my writing is so infinitely inspiring that it is terribly unlikely that just one person would want to be like me, and then fall in love with me, and then have a pscychotic break and want to kill me, cook me, and eat me in the hopes of devouring my power. Therefore, everyone at [adult swim] must also want to cook me and eat me! Afterall, you have been reading my letters for months now. Greedily consuming each word. Licking the paper I wrote on. Rolling naked on the duplicated copies of my genius. Xeroxing copies of the missives, shredding them, rolling them and smoking them like freehand hashish.

The stranger stood and stared at me. "See," he said, "I know who you are."
That's when it struck me like a bolt of lighting. "This is just and amazing coincidence," I said. "There must be another Michael out there with a wife and kids and pets by these names, with my birthday, and my favorite color, and my favorite Little Debbie Snacks, living at my address."
"That really doesn't sound possible," he said.
"Let me see the folder again," I said

So the retard handed me the folder and I bolted. I have considered that he might have made copies, but I haven't heard from him since that day. I'll keep my fingers crossed.

So that brings up back to the NOW. Why, you must be asking, in light of this psycho's obvious psychosis, and your potential/highly probably psychosis, am I proceeding with my store?

CONTINUATION:

Sugar stared, transfixed to the television. A dignified, but modest man pleaded to the camera for an information leading to the safe return of his beloved wife. He was offering a $2000.00 reward, which he confessed he would have to pay in installments. Several small children stood beside him and wept for their mommy.

Ordinarily Sugar dismissed such press briefings as they did not concern him or anyone he knew. But the picture in the background of this mother and wife was very familiar to him; intimately familiar. It was Ambrosia. And the thing that made Sugar's blood run cold was the man at the microphone pleading for his wife was not the trollish looking man who had dumped a million dollars in his lap.

When Hunny entered the room Sugar snapped the TV off.
"Your white as a ghost," she said walking over to the kitchenette counter. "Are you feeling ok?"
"I've been better," he said.
"You need to get out and get some sun," she said, pulling a loaf of bread from one of the cabinets. "And spend some money. That will make you feel better."
"I don't think so," Sugar moaned.
"You've hardly spent a dime since we got here. I'm beginning to think you aren't having fun."
"I'm just feeling a bit sick. I'm thinking we may need to go home early."
Hunny's demeanor hardened. She tossed a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. "Shake it off. We've only been here seven days. You owe me five more."
"I know ," Sugar said, hanging his head. "I just don't... Wait. Don't you mean that I still own you four days?"
"I've added a day," she said, returning to her whimsy. "Twelve seems, I don't know... better than eleven."
Sugar wanted to throw up. He felt like he'd swallowed the window unit air condtioner. "It's just that we've spent so much money."
"Well, it's ours isn't it?"
"Yes," he said,"I guess. But it's more than just the money. I'm worried about some things I left unfinished at home."
"If you're referring to that dead tramp you left laying in my yard then don't. I've taken care of your little indiscretion."

The toaster popped as Sugar's heart stopped beating. "Whu... ah... Buh..." His mind was racing. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't form a thought. "Whu?" he asked again.
"Oh please. Don't treat me like a fool," she said. "I've known about your affairs for years. You have affairs, I have affairs, everyone has affairs. It's what keeps a marriage together."
"You've cheated on me?"
"Oh," she laughed, "Don't play innocent now. At least I've never killed any of my lovers."
"But I didn't..."
"Quit lying," she snipped. "You're not good at it." She opened the hotel's complimentary refrigerator and pulled out the butter. "Oh, don't worry about it, Sugar," Hunny said, returning to her nurturing tone. "I've had my very close friend Donnie take care of it. Consider the issue burried."

She took a bite of her toast and leaned against the table. It wa obvious that she was trying to be sexy. She was not horrible looking, by any means, but she was no Ambrosia. "What about the husband?" Sugar asked.

"You mean that guy on TV?" she said with a mouthful of toast. "He's an idiot. And his kids are ugly. What does he think he's going to get for two grand? The money she had on her must have been dirty or he'd have told the cops about it."

She took another bite of toast and then repositioned herself so that her nightgown pulled tighter against her chest. "My guess is she ran off to start a new life after she robbed her husband blind. And clearly she didn't tell anyone what she was doing. You were right to kill her. Your timing couldn't have been more perfect. Now, don't you want me?"

signed
October 12, 2006

Ps. Don't aske me to explain the picture.
Ok, I'll explain a little. It's a chicken eating a phone. You know, like the old saying, "That guy's running around like a chicken eating a phone." I just decided I'd draw a picture of that old saying. I think I did a good job too. That chicken is eating that phone like his head's cut off.

Pps. I just realized something about the picture that may seem odd. Telephones used to have things called Cords. That's what that twirly thing connecting the chicken to the phone is. The "cord," if I'm not mistaken, is how the phone user got information to pass through the placenta. This was the only way to order pizza in the 19th century.