Dear Jane,
We’ve had some good times, haven’t we? From the day we first met at the truck stop, I’ve loved you. Remember when you got off work at Hooters early and we went to the English Patient? Granted, neither of us likes those “indie” films, but it was still wonderful just being there with you. I do not know how to tell you this, but we must break off our relationship. I am sure you are wondering why these tragic events must occur, so I will indulge you.
If you will remember how I told you I drove truck for Joe’s Big Rig Shipping, I regret to inform you that this is a falsity. To be honest with you, I work for Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have been investigating the Butts, Georgia area on account of a narcotics cultivator. (I know you can’t understand these technical terms. That’s a pot farmer, Jane, a pot farmer.) Well, anyway, I have uncovered Chico Miguel Sanchez’s forty-acre estate, and I am shortly going to arrest him. By now, I am sure you are wondering why I am telling you all this. I don’t know, to be honest with you. Or actually, that is why I am telling you. I am being honest.
Let me reassure you that I do love you. I love you with all my heart and soul. I understand that my newfound quality, honesty, is coming at a horrible time for you. But, Jane, the FBI is calling me back. I must leave everything that I did here behind. Please take care of our five children. I know that Zeke, Zoe and Chloe, Obidiah, and Sparky will be in good hands. Be sure to tell them that their father loves them very much. And when the little bundle of joy comes, please tell her about me. I know I have been becoming fond of “White Russians,” and I must apologize. When I reach Washington, I am going to switch right over to “Toasted Almonds.” When you read this, the all the Absolut will be gone.
Well, my dear, I hope you find somebody to care and nurture you better than I. I have enclosed a list of names of local citizens who are dangerous. Also, please make sure Obidiah stays away from that little Jasper Wiltrout. That boy is a convicted arsonist. Please care for my pack of hunting dogs. I love those dogs more than I love life itself. Oh, and you, of course. Also by the time you are done with this letter, you will to buy more Amaretto.
Now comes the most difficult part of this letter. I am sorry to inform you that upon finishing this letter, you will be arrested by IRS officials for your years of tax evasion. Remember I told you that you should pay them. And now look where you are…
The kids will probably be put in a foster home. God knows I could not care for those five godless heathens alone. It’s all your fault. Remember when you let Zeke wear his bathing suit instead of underwear? You turned him all topsy-turvy. Zoe and Chloe are stealing mail; I have caught them numerous times. They got it from you. Anyway, I am growing ill with all your faults, but there is one that is still an eyesore. I am aware of the prostitution ring that you are running. I strongly encourage you to cease this, because I am going to tell my superiors about you illegal activities.
That sums it up. The IRS people will probably be there in five or so minutes. I wouldn’t try running away because I put a honing beacon on your neck. I told you it was just a mole, but obviously it isn’t. If you go outside 500 feet of the house an electro-magnetic pulse will be sent through your body, rendering you unconscious. If you are wondering why it hasn’t gone off before, you might want to try and move your 300 pound body off the hammock. I think you are beginning to fester.
With great lament,
“Michael”
P.S. You might want to check the liquor cabinet. I think you’re out of Jim Beam. Oh yes, this letter will self-destruct in thirteen seconds…