A non-comprehensive collection
Dearest Wife, I’m Sorry That You’ve Decided To Murder Me
I’ll admit this was definitely my bad. One absolutely tragic bugaboo. It was completely inexcusable for me to leave that day and in retrospect, I, of course, would have done things differently and probably wouldn’t have even gone to Asia. I, genuinely, thought Max would have just found us at the airport. It’s like how I explained it in the State Department’s affidavit: Max gave me this solemn, meaningful glance as if to declare, “Sure, Dad, the airport tomorrow sounds good. Two hours early for international. Furthermore, Father, I appreciate you not being overbearing and talking down to me now. You’re my favorite role model.” Maybe it wasn’t that verbatim, but you didn’t see his face.
Two wrongs never make a right, though I realize that both you and the henchman with half of my ring finger might see this differently. I can only tell you what I told him and that’s that I’m sorry, and that I really thought the game was over when that monkey scampered out of the dumpster and onto the table. Now I know, though, what the scimitar is for—and also what it’s not for.
I get that you’re one-hundred-percent committed to killing me now. Even in our argument over my personal desire to stay alive, you were able to refute and undermine every one of my points. Swift and painless is still my preference, and in a perfect world you’d avoid any scalding acids. Of course, and as I know I’ve told you, my ideal scenario involves a euphoric, slow-acting poison that tastes exactly like Cherry Garcia. I know I don’t have any leverage here, but sometimes it can feel good to do something nice for someone. Even if that someone accidentally left our only son in the Malaysian underworld. Albeit with ample adult supervision.
If time’s not a major issue, though, I would enjoy being lulled into a false sense of security, much the way the complimentary breakfast buffet did in that Malaysian baccarat den. Of course I wouldn’t actively and mindfully savor it the way I might a complimentary breakfast buffet. I get that the conscious thought of “Boy, this is one hell of a false sense of security” is uncommon. No panic, however, means less mess come clean-up time, and those savings get passed directly onto you. Don’t be like that sword-happy henchman—with all that blood, sinew, and syrup going everywhere, that guy’s going to be on the hook for one serious dry cleaning bill.
Please have patience with me; I know it’s no small feat for a rational adult to dismiss your stated—now notarized—blood pact to end their life, but I think you know that I’m more than capable of forgetting important things.
Sorry. Probably too soon.
All I’m saying is that, even though you’re currently premeditating my murder, there’s no denying that I still care about you, Ms. 168-On-The-LSAT. You and I both are hoping this forecast calls for a zero-percent chance of justice.
I know I have apologized several times now, for taking him to Asia in the first place, for deviating from the school group, and for assuming I was a natural baccarat savant after only hearing of the game earlier that day. Do you think though, and I’m just spit-balling here, instead of straight-up killing me you could, maybe, instead lure me into a dangerous hobby—diving for pearls, sleeping through carbon monoxide alarms, or collecting fire?
My bad, I don’t mean to note you to death. I know this is your thing.
If Max ever returns to this hemisphere, I’d prefer him to not witness my murdered cadaver. This isn’t a negotiation, more of a plea, so I can’t rightfully deem this a dealbreaker. But my opinion is a hard no here, as in it would be quite cool of you to not let our child see a mangled (or un-mangled, dealer’s choice) corpse of his father. Once I’m gone, however, you can just tell him I went to live upstate on a farm with other dads.
Post-murder, you’ll come to find I was enrolled in that life insurance policy requiring my beneficiaries to solve elaborate riddles.
Miss you already!
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