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Dear future murder victim nr. 48,
By the time you read this, I'll be in R'lyeh at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, worshiping great Cthulhu. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I don't think I could restrain myself from laughing about what I saw last night. I know this might seem like a kick in the nuts to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Red Cross" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. I just need to enter "4 8 15 16 23 42" into my command prompt every 108th minute. I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed masculine side, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a card-carrying member of the Hair Club for Men, and I am an amateur weightlifter. You like laying on the floor with all the lights off, lassoing people on subway cars, and filling guinea pigs with helium, 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 people without AIDS. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I see a couple screaming at each other in public. I'd really like us to become partners in crime and steal candy from helpless little kids, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, even if they only lasted a few microseconds. Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the sniper rifle, and I know how to use it.
~ Bruce Wayne. |