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Dear Harry
Thank you for inviting me to your garden party last Saturday. I had a most pleasurable time enjoying the beverages and the delicious amuses. I have never seen such a professional catering team, which was good looking too, I might add. Those waitresses certainly know how to make a little extra cash, if you know what I mean. I've seen several of your business associates climbing up the stairs, following one of those black and white skirted teenagers. Rest assured, my friend, I'm not judging them. Everyone needs to relax once in a while.
Your garden is beautiful. You must have one of the most talented landscapers in the country working for you. The placement of the magnolias and the gloriosa flowers between the yew hedges is quite astounding. Your garden looked like a majestic golf court with softly glowing lanterns here and there. But I don't have to tell you how your lawn looks. I think you know that already. I can imagine you, sitting on that porch, overlooking your vast estate while you sip your first coffee in the morning and perhaps you're opening this letter.
It is not an easy letter for me to write. How long has it been, apart from Saturday and our unexpected reunion at Brock's Bar three days earlier? Twenty-two years have past since we suddenly stopped being childhood friends. It's been that long since that last camping trip where we drove our motorcycles from festival to festival. Remember how drunk and stoned we got, and how you tried to seduce that Asian girl? What happened after that summer, Harry?
I'm a little nervous to write this because there is so much that I want to tell you and there is so much about you that I don't know yet. It was easier when we lived in the same street, went to the same school and still had those regular play dates. Our mothers looked at us as if we were brothers, especially after your older brother died of leukemia. Those were hard times for you and your family, but our families were so close that we all comforted each other. I remember those times as warm, emotional and intensely human.Therefore it's hard for me to write this letter.
Twenty-plus years change people and we both have changed tremendously, wouldn't you agree? We got fatter, you got balder, I got health problems, you got married, I became homeless, you divorced. The list goes on and on. You surely have become the successful businessman that you have always said you were going to be. Like your father and even more so, you now own a multi-million euros estate with hotels, private banking offices, casinos and resorts. Once you wanted to become rich, now you're wealthy.
Do you remember what I wanted to be, Harry? I wanted to be free, so I became homeless. It was not really my choice but somehow it happened. You got remarried soon after, with Linda. What a woman she has become. Do you remember that she was my high school crush? I adored her curly blonde hair and the shy smile on her face whenever I tried to speak to her. Oh, Harry, how different could things have been, had I dared to open my mouth to tell her how I really felt about her. I still often dream of her in that red skirt, playing hide and seek with her little sister. I'll tell you a little secret: on that day, I had my first real boner. Linda gave me my first boner, Harry.
In the past twenty years, I roamed around. I worked here and there until I got tired of it or until I got kicked out for stealing food. My bedroom often was the nearest bridge, my bed a cardboard box. Sometimes I thought about you, especially when I was sleeping in one of the parks around the Hudderford-hotel. Did you ever see me when you were looking out of the window of your luxury suite, Mr. Hudderford? Did you see me trying to get some sleep under yesterday's newspaper?
I am very grateful that you offered me a job Saturday. I'm not sure whether running a hotel is something for me, but that's not the reason I declined. In fact, I didn't decline your gracious offer yet. I just had to think about it for a while. You were absolutely right to tell me that this job would turn my life around. But you know, Harry, my life has been turned around so many times that the mere thought of such a change frightens me. Not a lot of things frighten me anymore, not since I managed to crawl out of this society.
I guess you must be terrified of this society, Harry. Aren't you afraid that someone will kidnap little Misty for ransom? By the way, does Linda know you named your daughter after a porn-star? We watched her together, remember? On the video recorder in the attic, two puckish kids watching a porn movie together while our parents thought we were playing with Lego. We built walls of Lego to hide behind and watch those naughty movies. Do you remember that? By the way, do you still ask little boys to play with your cock while you're watching those movies, Harry?
You keep on building those walls, don't you, Harry? You still hide behind massive walls, no longer made of Lego but concrete and electrified fences. What are you hiding, Harry? Or what are you hiding from? Are you scared someone will come and take your money away, like you were scared when your older brother's disease and eventual death took all the attention away from you? Do you remember what you said, Harry? You said: "I wish I died in stead of him".
So did I, you miserable fucking excuse for a human being. You used your brother's death, you used each and every one that crossed your path in the twenty-plus years that followed, and you tried to use me to clear your rotten image. You saw a perfect opportunity to 'help out an old friend in difficult times' to kick-off your political ambitions. Good fucking job, Harry. But, unlike you, I have seen this world. I have been an outsider for years and I know what people like you are like, Harry. You can lie, and so can I. I must respectfully decline your offer, my old friend, because I do not need it.
To be honest, I do have a job. I'm a cleaner. I make filth go away. I am damn good at my job too, one of my colleagues once said I was one of the best pest control people he had ever seen. That actually means a lot, coming from a veteran who used to do this kind of job for the government. You've seen him by the way. He was the man I was talking to at Brock's Bar when you came in. He was the guy with the scarred mouth who softly chuckled when you came in. He doesn't like your type, I'm afraid.
But you know, Harry, I'm sick of this job. I learned so much over the past few decades and I'm tired of running. I'm sick of this world and I'm sick of being lonely all the time. You can buy all the companionship and affection you need, but not one girl is willing to come home with you when she knows your bedroom is a bridge. Over the years it got better. Some missions made it able for me to sleep in hotels and call some hookers. But at the lower levels, Harry, there isn't a lot of future. In that, my job is exactly the same as yours. Yes, I paid some of your chambermaids to suck my cock and it was damn well worth it. You sure know how to hire some good sluts.
By now, I hope you start realizing that you are my final mission, Harry. A risky and daring mission with a very high price tag. You are the grand finale, Harry, the magnum opus, the last bank robbery before the gangsters retire on an island in the Caribbean. The price tag is as high as it is simple: freedom. My freedom. Remember what we said on that last camping trip on that searing hot August night? You said: "soon we will be free". A bit over twenty years is not that soon, but you were right, we are about to be free.
This letter is written on poison drenched paper, an ancient Asian elimination technique. Every time you rub your beard, every time you lick your finger and every time you take a bite from that delicious looking croissant, the poison enters your body. By now, a drop of blood should drip from out of your nose and you probably begin to feel hot. Soon, a fever will start to develop and your stomach will start aching. Before the hour is over, you will be in excruciating pain and blood will come not only from your nose but also from your eyes and ears. You will become dizzy but you will be in too much pain to sleep it off.
You basically have two choices now, Harry. One: call for help with that smartphone in your pocket or scream, hoping one of your servants will find and help you. You will survive because you did not take in enough of the poison to kill you, but you will be a plant, unable to speak properly, unable to walk, unable to wipe your own ass. You can show this letter to the police - well, you can't but one of your servants could, and you can hope that they ever find Linda, Misty and me.
Oh, I didn't tell that yet. Since I'm being honest with you, I have to mention that Linda was both the commissioner and the price for this specific mission. I met her earlier, years earlier. Does your peanut brain still remember Misty's birth? Well, Linda and I met again about nine months before that. She's not your kid, you impotent imbecile. She's mine. They both are mine now, and so are those dirty little secrets of yours.
But I have to give you your second option before your eyesight starts to fade to black. You can end the pain, prevent the humiliation of being a grown man who shits his pants for decades to come. You can eat this letter to end it all. When you do, you will gently slip into a coma and your heart will stop when you sleep. All they will find is an unfortunate heart attack victim and nobody will ever question your dignity or the circumstances surrounding your death. Whatever choice you make, Harry, I want to thank you for finally setting both of us free.
With kind regards
Your friend.
Thank you for inviting me to your garden party last Saturday. I had a most pleasurable time enjoying the beverages and the delicious amuses. I have never seen such a professional catering team, which was good looking too, I might add. Those waitresses certainly know how to make a little extra cash, if you know what I mean. I've seen several of your business associates climbing up the stairs, following one of those black and white skirted teenagers. Rest assured, my friend, I'm not judging them. Everyone needs to relax once in a while.
Your garden is beautiful. You must have one of the most talented landscapers in the country working for you. The placement of the magnolias and the gloriosa flowers between the yew hedges is quite astounding. Your garden looked like a majestic golf court with softly glowing lanterns here and there. But I don't have to tell you how your lawn looks. I think you know that already. I can imagine you, sitting on that porch, overlooking your vast estate while you sip your first coffee in the morning and perhaps you're opening this letter.
It is not an easy letter for me to write. How long has it been, apart from Saturday and our unexpected reunion at Brock's Bar three days earlier? Twenty-two years have past since we suddenly stopped being childhood friends. It's been that long since that last camping trip where we drove our motorcycles from festival to festival. Remember how drunk and stoned we got, and how you tried to seduce that Asian girl? What happened after that summer, Harry?
I'm a little nervous to write this because there is so much that I want to tell you and there is so much about you that I don't know yet. It was easier when we lived in the same street, went to the same school and still had those regular play dates. Our mothers looked at us as if we were brothers, especially after your older brother died of leukemia. Those were hard times for you and your family, but our families were so close that we all comforted each other. I remember those times as warm, emotional and intensely human.Therefore it's hard for me to write this letter.
Twenty-plus years change people and we both have changed tremendously, wouldn't you agree? We got fatter, you got balder, I got health problems, you got married, I became homeless, you divorced. The list goes on and on. You surely have become the successful businessman that you have always said you were going to be. Like your father and even more so, you now own a multi-million euros estate with hotels, private banking offices, casinos and resorts. Once you wanted to become rich, now you're wealthy.
Do you remember what I wanted to be, Harry? I wanted to be free, so I became homeless. It was not really my choice but somehow it happened. You got remarried soon after, with Linda. What a woman she has become. Do you remember that she was my high school crush? I adored her curly blonde hair and the shy smile on her face whenever I tried to speak to her. Oh, Harry, how different could things have been, had I dared to open my mouth to tell her how I really felt about her. I still often dream of her in that red skirt, playing hide and seek with her little sister. I'll tell you a little secret: on that day, I had my first real boner. Linda gave me my first boner, Harry.
In the past twenty years, I roamed around. I worked here and there until I got tired of it or until I got kicked out for stealing food. My bedroom often was the nearest bridge, my bed a cardboard box. Sometimes I thought about you, especially when I was sleeping in one of the parks around the Hudderford-hotel. Did you ever see me when you were looking out of the window of your luxury suite, Mr. Hudderford? Did you see me trying to get some sleep under yesterday's newspaper?
I am very grateful that you offered me a job Saturday. I'm not sure whether running a hotel is something for me, but that's not the reason I declined. In fact, I didn't decline your gracious offer yet. I just had to think about it for a while. You were absolutely right to tell me that this job would turn my life around. But you know, Harry, my life has been turned around so many times that the mere thought of such a change frightens me. Not a lot of things frighten me anymore, not since I managed to crawl out of this society.
I guess you must be terrified of this society, Harry. Aren't you afraid that someone will kidnap little Misty for ransom? By the way, does Linda know you named your daughter after a porn-star? We watched her together, remember? On the video recorder in the attic, two puckish kids watching a porn movie together while our parents thought we were playing with Lego. We built walls of Lego to hide behind and watch those naughty movies. Do you remember that? By the way, do you still ask little boys to play with your cock while you're watching those movies, Harry?
You keep on building those walls, don't you, Harry? You still hide behind massive walls, no longer made of Lego but concrete and electrified fences. What are you hiding, Harry? Or what are you hiding from? Are you scared someone will come and take your money away, like you were scared when your older brother's disease and eventual death took all the attention away from you? Do you remember what you said, Harry? You said: "I wish I died in stead of him".
So did I, you miserable fucking excuse for a human being. You used your brother's death, you used each and every one that crossed your path in the twenty-plus years that followed, and you tried to use me to clear your rotten image. You saw a perfect opportunity to 'help out an old friend in difficult times' to kick-off your political ambitions. Good fucking job, Harry. But, unlike you, I have seen this world. I have been an outsider for years and I know what people like you are like, Harry. You can lie, and so can I. I must respectfully decline your offer, my old friend, because I do not need it.
To be honest, I do have a job. I'm a cleaner. I make filth go away. I am damn good at my job too, one of my colleagues once said I was one of the best pest control people he had ever seen. That actually means a lot, coming from a veteran who used to do this kind of job for the government. You've seen him by the way. He was the man I was talking to at Brock's Bar when you came in. He was the guy with the scarred mouth who softly chuckled when you came in. He doesn't like your type, I'm afraid.
But you know, Harry, I'm sick of this job. I learned so much over the past few decades and I'm tired of running. I'm sick of this world and I'm sick of being lonely all the time. You can buy all the companionship and affection you need, but not one girl is willing to come home with you when she knows your bedroom is a bridge. Over the years it got better. Some missions made it able for me to sleep in hotels and call some hookers. But at the lower levels, Harry, there isn't a lot of future. In that, my job is exactly the same as yours. Yes, I paid some of your chambermaids to suck my cock and it was damn well worth it. You sure know how to hire some good sluts.
By now, I hope you start realizing that you are my final mission, Harry. A risky and daring mission with a very high price tag. You are the grand finale, Harry, the magnum opus, the last bank robbery before the gangsters retire on an island in the Caribbean. The price tag is as high as it is simple: freedom. My freedom. Remember what we said on that last camping trip on that searing hot August night? You said: "soon we will be free". A bit over twenty years is not that soon, but you were right, we are about to be free.
This letter is written on poison drenched paper, an ancient Asian elimination technique. Every time you rub your beard, every time you lick your finger and every time you take a bite from that delicious looking croissant, the poison enters your body. By now, a drop of blood should drip from out of your nose and you probably begin to feel hot. Soon, a fever will start to develop and your stomach will start aching. Before the hour is over, you will be in excruciating pain and blood will come not only from your nose but also from your eyes and ears. You will become dizzy but you will be in too much pain to sleep it off.
You basically have two choices now, Harry. One: call for help with that smartphone in your pocket or scream, hoping one of your servants will find and help you. You will survive because you did not take in enough of the poison to kill you, but you will be a plant, unable to speak properly, unable to walk, unable to wipe your own ass. You can show this letter to the police - well, you can't but one of your servants could, and you can hope that they ever find Linda, Misty and me.
Oh, I didn't tell that yet. Since I'm being honest with you, I have to mention that Linda was both the commissioner and the price for this specific mission. I met her earlier, years earlier. Does your peanut brain still remember Misty's birth? Well, Linda and I met again about nine months before that. She's not your kid, you impotent imbecile. She's mine. They both are mine now, and so are those dirty little secrets of yours.
But I have to give you your second option before your eyesight starts to fade to black. You can end the pain, prevent the humiliation of being a grown man who shits his pants for decades to come. You can eat this letter to end it all. When you do, you will gently slip into a coma and your heart will stop when you sleep. All they will find is an unfortunate heart attack victim and nobody will ever question your dignity or the circumstances surrounding your death. Whatever choice you make, Harry, I want to thank you for finally setting both of us free.
With kind regards
Your friend.
