Letter to a Friend

Richard Solomon



Hey old buddy. Sorry to lose touch. Been kind of hectic lately.  Sometimes life comes at you so fast; you barely have time to blink. 

I’m still driving the forklift. Not my dream job, but it pays the bills.The warehouse manager’s on my ass. Wrote me up again for excessive breakage. So I went to the shop steward. He referred me to the union rep. Probably a waste of time. Nobody’s for the working man anymore.

The whole country’s gone to shit. Don’t believe me? Read a newspaper. Everyone’s out to try to screw you. Government, the banks---all the way down to your next door neighbor. Whatever happened to common decency? America’s finished. 

To make matters worse, I’ve been sick the last few weeks; headaches, stomach pain, shakes, heart palpitations. All stress related. That’s the main cause of most diseases nowadays. Comes from keeping things bottled up.  Dr. Oz had a show on it.

 Being an artist, it especially affects me. When I can’t express myself, when there’s no creative outlet, it’s like I swallowed a gallon of battery acid. You know how it is. 

All it takes is a few weeks of down time before the physical symptoms start. And then---depression. That dark box that keeps out light and fresh air, and makes you feel like you’re locked inside one of those History Channel Nazi extermination vans---choking to death on toxic fumes.  Things got a little rough---but I’m better now. 

During the hiatus from my art I came to some realizations---follow your dream, and never quit. I won’t doubt myself again. Especially now that I’ve tapped into something beautiful---something bigger than I ever thought possible. And it’s not just me saying this. Other people have noticed my talent. 

Speaking of which, there’s a new article on me. A hit piece, but still publicity.  You can’t expect honest journalism from out corrupt mainstream media. The story was filled with stereotypes and inaccuracies. My parents never abused me. How could they? We hardly spoke. And I didn’t grow up in some run down trailer park shithole. It was a nice middle class neighborhood. A decent place, where you didn’t need an alarm system, and ten deadbolts to keep out the scumbags.        

They’re so ignorant. Didn’t they ever take a high school biology class? I’m not a monster; I’m a predator--- swift and deliberate. Just like in the animal kingdom. There’s a hunter gene in me that must date back to prehistoric times. I guess most people lost it, or got domesticated.  Not me. 

Makes me want to have kids, pass on my DNA to future generations. Probably have to get married first. Unfortunately things are a little slow in the romance department right now. Channel four ran a segment on speed dating. Maybe I should try it.  

But don’t get the idea it’s all genetic. There’s a lot of skill and craftsmanship involved too. I’m an artiste. My canvas is human skin. My brushes; the hunting knife, the chain saw, the claw hammer. This is not some Wal-Mart paint by numbers set bullshit. 

Got a funny story for you. Went to a gay bar last weekend. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s a great place to hunt. One of them came back to my apartment.  That’s when the fun started. Now don’t get any ideas, I’m no queer. Sure I let him do stuff to me---had to---otherwise he might’ve got suspicious. Trust me, I didn’t like it one bit.    

My strategy worked of course, because eventually he let me tie him up. Then I fucked him for a while---another part of the bait and switch. At first pretty boy was loving it. Until I took a break and came back with my scalpel and hacksaw.  You should’ve seen the look on his face. Priceless. 

He fainted several times during the castration, but the smelling salts woke him right up.  That’s why it’s important to make a checklist. Forget one small thing, and it can ruin your whole evening. This was beautiful. Definitely my best work to date. I’ll mail you the polaroids. 

Full moon tonight. Makes me want to rip open my shirt, and howl like that wolf man guy in those old Turner Classics. That’s just for starters. The big party’s on this nice cul de sac. At a big pretty white house surrounded by old oak trees and tall hedges. In my line of work, privacy’s key. It’s better when you can take your time. I hate feeling rushed. 

You should see this family---classic. Mom, dad, a boy and a girl; both teenagers. All of them so wholesome; like one of those commercials---where the father comes home from work, mom’s setting the table, and the kids run in all happy to see them. Yeah right.  Junior was probably shooting smack in his room. And I bet Sis just got gang banged by the football team.  Fucking whore. 

Can’t wait to meet them in person.  Just thinking about it gets me excited. Even though I’ve had them under surveillance for a week, it’s not the same as face to face. 

Don’t worry. I’ll fill you in on all the details after I’m through. I know you like to be kept in the loop.

Wish me luck, and good hunting. It’ll be great when we can meet for a few beers, maybe shoot a game of pool. I still remember the first time you reached out to me in that dark movie theatre---your face splashed big and bold across the screen. Even though there were other people in the audience, I knew every word you spoke was meant for me---and me alone. It was like the two us were the last people on Earth. You became my best friend that night. Hopefully the feeling’s mutual.  

There’s so much more I want to tell you, but I’ll save it for another time. You might get tired of me if I reveal myself too quickly, although I doubt it, since we’re both kindred spirits. Keep me in your prayers, and of course I’ll be thinking of you. 

Your Pal,

 Rusty  

 

Issue 12


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