Dear you with that unpronouncable name,
By the time you read this, I'll be transferring the last of our mutual savings to a bank account in Geneva.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but no, I am not going to stop sending these letters just because the judge and my psychiatrist told me not to.
I know this might seem like a big surprise
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to adopt a child from a third world country for media publicity, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter. I just need need need need need... well; I can't quite remember.
I want to tell you that I think you are perfectly looking, at least according to Neptunian standards, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are committed, literally,
and I am Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.
You like trying to fit inside sewer drains, insult sword fighting, and disturbing annual sci-fi conventions with whistles and cymbals,
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 — oh wait, I meant to write "hate" of course.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I go on another nightly tour to quench my vampiric thirst for human blood.
I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, well, no... but no-one else has to know that.
Take care of yourself and never forget that the world is going to end unless you enter the code "4 8 15 16 23 42" into the micro-computer every 108:th minute.
Beep beep, Richie,
~ The Pope.
P.S. I am your father. Search your feelings - you know it to be true. D.S.
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