X and Y Letters, Chapter 3: The Erection

Dear X,

Sweet Jesus! You clearly don’t have too many fucks to give, or else you would’ve taken a second to think about my schedule. But that’s just fine; not a problem, X. You’ve got important shit to do, of course; can’t be bothered to take others into account, of course.

Well, anyway, yeah; all’s well. I’ve been 3 days without hearing a god damn thing from you, but, come to find out, you’ve broken the law. And, top off that steaming shit-sundae with the fact that you’ve picked now to tell me that you’ve left. What a lovely little candied turd-ball! Sure, X; all is fucking well.

I’m not even mad, honestly; just a little stressed is all. I thought you were more of a plan-the-whole-thing-out type than a leave-under-cover-of-night-on-a-whim type, but, then again, what the hell does a worst-case kind of person like me know? I’m just the person you decided to tell about the Statue of Liberty’s erection. Isn’t it was a woman? You must’ve landed in some pornographic alternate past.

For both our sake, and that of whatever future generations you think are going to gobble up this horse-shit, I’m gonna assume, from this point on, that you didn’t spend some twenty-two paragraphs calling me an idiot, and assuring me that there’s only a one in a hundred chance that I’ll be caught, tortured, and forced to live for what feels like forever. I don’t want the future generations thinking that your being an inconsiderate dick has any bearing on your credibility, much less your worst-case-scenario’s emotions.

So, here we fucking go. I’ll try not to barf.

Dear Lord X,

Pleasure hearing from you, sire. In the three days since you’ve departed on your most honorable journey, I, your humble servant, have had ample time to think about your brilliance and beauty. Longing to pontificate (Future generations will simply shit themselves over words like pontificate, your grace) over the majesty of your flowing blonde curls, or lovely roman profile have cost your humble servant many a good night sleep. But, fret not, sire. It is not the wish of your humble servant to insight any stress or inflict any criticism, your grace. I am a mere fool with neither the bravery, nor the intellect to journey into, as you so eloquently put it, sire, “the dark cave of time”

or whatever pretentious shit you said.

You’ve made a bold move, I’ll give you that. Most people wouldn’t have the stones to set foot in the past, even one that they’re legally allowed in.

I’ll keep you updated on what happens here, as your absence inevitably causes enough of a fuss in the present to warrant worldwide news-circulation. I’m pretty god damn sure that the gov’t will wallpaper your face to every wall of every home until they find you and skin you alive, in simulation, of course.

Now, sire, I mustn’t let future generations slip from my mind. I must warn you, sire, that your absence will surely be noticed; very quickly, in fact. I fear that your lordship will be faced with great trials in the coming days. Oh, holy one!

No, that’s too much.

Oh, brilliant one! Forgive your ignorant, pathetic worm of a servant. I trust that you know, sire, that, given the opportunity, I would gladly fall on your sword, when you are (fucking inevitably) found out by the government.

Fuck the future generations. Your damn panties are knotted every which-way over your damn decision. I don’t know if I’ll say a single god damn thing to you. I don’t mind that you talked to me about it all those times. In fact, I sort-of like flirting with illegal activity now and then. A little pontification about knocking over a convenience store, or shooting an old lady; stuff like that really gets the ol’ juices flowing. But, you actually going off and doing something that’ll get you mentally drawn-and-quartered is a totally different set of circumstances. I could give less of a shit about whether you get caught. I’m not even getting the thrill of tasting whatever the hell a french-fry is, and I’ll be in the same boat as you.

I’m pretty hung up on your delusional belief that I want to be a part of this. All we did was talk about the trip. Did I say that I wanted to be the damned eunuch in your felonious court, oh inconsiderate one; your god damned foolish grace; sire? No, your high-and-mightiness, I did-fucking-not.

But, I’m sure since you are, admittedly, more malevolent than I could ever hope to be, you’ve figured out some way to make it impossible for me to deny your invitation. So, for fear of my safety, and absolutely nothing more, I’ll take your letters.

Don’t expect a kind word from me.

Now I’ve spent ample time criticizing your treatment of me, I’ll go ahead and tell you a few things.

I’m assuming, since it has been a full 24 hours since your last letter arrived at my door, that you’ve already started decaying in that diner booth. But, because I’m as sadistic as the next, I’ll go ahead and assume that you’re dead. It’ll help me think more clearly, I’m sure.

In the four days since I last heard from you, I’ve been a busy man. As you know, I recently turned 22, which necessitates a near constant masturbation schedule. In addition to that, it may come as a surprise to you that I don’t live in my apartment. I do other things, like watch movies, go outside, buy groceries, and spend the night with women. I live a very, very exciting personal life, and I’ll thank you to be more considerate of that next time you berate me about not responding to your letters immediately.

I recently read a news story about an escaped convict that the Tecko Brand News Circulator is just now getting around to spitting out. Apparently the con was going to be locked up for the next 2 years, under the same circumstances as we will both be in after your capture, which, let’s be honest, is so inevitable that it’s practically impending. Something they did—like, kill their husband, or a sick person, or something—warranted a very long time-out. No earthly idea how the fiery hell they managed to pull it off, but they escaped; no trace of them. Authorities are giving themselves heart-attacks over whether the con went into the illegal past, or the illegal future (you probably remember the legislation that makes it so that Joe Blow can’t accidentally knock-up his great-great-great-great-great-grandchild and give future humans three heads, or two dicks, or whatever). Well, where they are is still up in the air, and it has been for four days. I guess your Cuboid trance didn’t allow you to pay attention to the news, but, after I left our meeting, I came straight home, and the News Circulator had already spit out the story.

The gov’t hasn’t toppled since the escape, but the price of Pabst did go up another buck. Can you imagine what would possess a company to jack the price of beer up by a whole god damned dollar? Thing is, that’s not all they’ve dramatically increased the price on. Just a few hours before I came home to a beeping Magic Mailbox, I was at the store, stocking up on a few things. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was truly something. Corn, apples, chicken—fucking everything that I normally eat had mark-ups from $0.20, all the way up to $1.25.

My favorite TV show was canceled. I’ll be sure to tell you all about that in the next letter, should your forget to clarify what the hell it is you want me to keep you updated about. I assume that an escaped con is something that’ll register on your radar. Grocery price variations are just another way to flip you off through time.

As for the con, the gov’t has yet to announce whether there’ll be a search party, or if they had an implant in this perp that’ll allow them to jerk whoever it was back to their cell. I couldn’t care less, quite frankly. Either their crime was so heinous that Tecko couldn’t print it, or it was so mediocre that they didn’t bother. It’s not like it really matters, though, since the prisoner escaped in time. It’s not like they’re in my house

right behind me

with a knife pressed to my throat.

Your humble fucking servant,


P.S. Fuck you. I hope you really think I have a knife pressed to my throat.

P.P.S. It’s fucking sarcasm. I’m fine. I’ll write again when I can, or when anything interesting happens. Try to be patient. I’m sorry I cursed so much.

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