I am so happy to be indirectly and tagged by the great splotchy virus by two bloggers I adore, Frannylish and bubbsie.
Bubbsie's splotch. If you haven't read it, read it. A true creative speckled in law enforcement questions that only he can think of.
Splotchy's yarn: "I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words."
Bubbsie's yarn: "I looked up and down the street but didn’t see any delivery truck, or any car for that matter. No FedEx, no UPS , no creepy-looking porno'd-out conversion van with a half-assed delivery service sign taped to its side. Nothing. It's like delivery man just disappeared. I stepped back inside, re-set the deadbolts and took a closer look at the envelope.
Mentally I ran through the checklist of letter bomb warning signs. The handwriting on the envelope, smudged and cramped as it was, was laid out in a tiny, obsessively neat block lettering. It practically screamed recently-de-institutionalized loner with time on his hands. No ticking or whirring sounds, that’s good. No odd smells, no leaks or stains on the package. Check. Weight seemed evenly distributed, that’s good too. I decided to open it.
Inside I found a plane ticket to Pensacola, a business card for a lawyer in Niceville, five crisp $100 bills and a four page handwritten note. Well. This was different. I poured a cup of coffee, threw some meat to the dogs to stop em barking, and sat down to read."
Schwartzy's yarn: Oh, wait, this coffee is missing something. Unprepared for the contents of a 4 page letter from a stranger, hoping I was hittin' it big from a fifteenth generation relative I didn't fuck over, I deserved a shot of single malt scotch and poured two. I sat back down and chugged my finely percolated brew, topped off with 25-year Laphroig. "Ah, delicious, the perfect chest-burning-blend. I ain't cheap when it comes to booze.
Dad?! I don't got no fuckin' kids. She must have me confused with Ian McKenzie two trailers down, or Ian Mosgat in the slip beside Tessa McBumble's.
Ian Hanlin, you are my father.
How the fuck she know my name?! I grabbed the bottle of Laphroig and poked through my sateen curtains to make sure I wasn't bein' stalked or nothin.
My mother was a hooker back in the 70s. You knocked her up one night at the Snooty Fox hotel. She kept it and you a secret from me. I found out about you going by going through her things last week when she died. In a drunken stupor, she inadvertently shot up perfume instead of heroine. Ma was never that bright. That's probably the only thing you and I will ever agree on.
What a wise ass-- Kid's just like me.
Drag your lazy ass on a plane and meet me in Pensacola, all expenses paid. I need to meet you. Please contact my attorney if you have any questions.
Sincerely?! I'm her fuckin' father, she can't say "I love you"?
Frannylish's Splotch will be posted tomorrow!