where the writers are
Pt. II Immediate Update!
The Kamov Ka-50: For sale or lease at the Buick Pontiac GMC dealership just down the street! 5% APR!

 I heard a knock at the door a few minutes ago, opened it, and no one was there, instead a severed cow's head, decapitated straight from some barn or pasture somewhere, slowly spreading fresh blood from its massive gaping lack of a neck, all over the little front steps of my happy home. I spit out the Swedish meatball I was chewing on immediately, thinking this event to be the most intensely karmatic in the history of karma (except for a future of fighting off any sort of cancers related to smoking). After tossing the rest of my just-cooked spaghetti and spicy Swedish meatballs into the toilet to be flushed forever, I looked outside the front door again. The cow head remained. Its glossy black eyes stared into Sartre, oh, I mean nothingness, but sticking out of its huge, snot and blood running nose was what appeared to be plastic baggie with some paper rolled up inside. I found a note placed in Cow Head's right nostril! Surely this was a sign from God!

I took the baggie out of the nose of the deceased and took the note out right there. I hoped to find a users manual to direct me in how exactly to use this thing – was it a gift, to encourage me to eat more Swedish meatballs? Sadly, I was mistaken. The grandiosity of the event in my mind was terribly let down. No, the severed cow's head was not from God or karma – it had absolutely nothing to do with Swedish meatballs at all. I should have paid more attention, what a waste; an hour and a half making a nice meal that would have lasted three and one-third days down the darned toilet. So what of it. What was this mess on my doorstep?

The contents of the plastic baggie is two pages of typewritten calamity. This is exactly what was written, word for word, and I will not leave out spelling errors so that you may witness the extraordinary extent of my misery, but I altered the swear words out of posterity.

Attention Mr. Jonathon

We sall it buddy. We sall what you posted on Redroom. We sall it tonight One of my girls was nagging me about people talking SH*T about Chicago. Look buddy. all the best people came from Chicago – we got Oprah, we got the President – the mothaf*$%in president and you cant beet that. Nobody in the hoe world can beet that, not to mention Balushy and Turkal. My girl said you said this town MY TOWN is yesterdays sh*t. I got you buddy – we dont go down the toylet so easly. Not even when one little nobody says it – no buddym you bet your ass. As a gesture of appreciation for yor stupidity and your bad attitude we put this little gift on your doorway as a nice little reminder – that you dont talk about Chicago.

Listen hear buddy. I no your liberaly minded, you just got to suck up and admit that you are the loser hear. You see yet? You left my fair city, it didnt leev you. see. It even at your dorstep. I aint tryin to scare you or nothing. I like your wit boy, its reel nice thow you dont say it about my fair city. I culd say that abowt my xwife. hahaha

you have a nice night now - I had to do this to make my girl happy but you dont mees with Chicago. Come again and well do business. ok. baba now.

Yours trewly,

Al Cabone the clone

The second page was blank.

What am I supposed to do with a giant cow's head? What about the creep peeking around the corner of my apartment complex confirming receipt of package, only then to run to his car, wait a little longer to see what I would do with this damn cow's head, and then await for further instructions from The Clone? I don't know. I'll leave the cow's head to building maintenance. I'm going to bed. I'll pick up a Kamov Ka-50 first thing in the morning, that or a AV-8B Harrier II, whichever offers the best in personal travel protection under these peculiar circumstances.