Dear Mickey Finn,
By the time you read this, I'll be eaten alive by Jabba the Hutt.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but time is money, and according to your most current bank statement you have insufficient funds to purchase additional time credits with me.
I know this might seem like an unexpected departure
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to vacation in the Ivory Coast, and smuggle bits of it home to sell on the black market, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain intoxicated. I just need a bit of a laugh.
I want to tell you that I think you are not the worst lover I ever had, but that would be a bald-faced lie, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up,
and I am into streaking.
You like groping fresh produce, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and sewing extra limbs onto your body,
and I'm just not sure I can ever share your joy in those things.
How can two people so different ever make it for the long haul? I think we should date other people.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I dig your cold, dead body up again to have sex with you.
I'd really like us to become born-again strangers,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, but then I woke up and realised that it was just a dream.
Take care of yourself and never forget that despite all the nonsense I've written in this letter, I'm still going to track you down and kill you.
See you in Hell,
~ Your favorite drugdealer.
P.S. Do you remember that VHS tape I showed you yesterday, the one with a towel-headed man and a well? If so, you now have six days left to live. Life's a bitch, ain't she? D.S.
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