... Halloween Morning: On Which Kermit Receives Some Rather Unexpected Correspondence ...
On Wednesday, I had to work like just about everyone else. When I saw Raphael Fleetwhite lying there on the Slab, I was surprised, shocked, even, and Excused Myself to go into my Office to check my e-mail.
As usual, my inbox was Full with missives from people with names like hotjeanie3547 with Subject Lines along the order of
DO YOU LIKE HOT TEEN ASIAN PUSSY? XXXXXXX ADULTS ONLY.
But THEN, there was an e-mail that just about made me SHIT.
From: Frankie Minot <>
Subject: You Bastard
Date: Mon, 28 Oct 2001 20:27:26 -0800 (PST)
We were not Amused by the way in wheech our Corpse was
handled last week, nor do we appreciate the cavalier
manner in wheech you discussed our Deceased Person.
You will pay dearly for this, Mr. Broadmeyer, but your
penalty weel be less severe if you Find a good Home at
once for my dachshund, Goose.
Fuck you and yours, as I myself weel do when I veesit
you from the Beyond. And incidentally, you're a
Goddamn Bastard--eet ees *I* who wrote TOWN FULL OF HOORS.
Do You Yahoo!?
Make a great connection at Yahoo! Personals.
Well, we all know by now that you can e-mail Dead People, and they might write you back, and vice-versa, and in fact I've been e-mailed my My Fair Share of them! But I did NOT expect to get one from Minot. I was about to hit "Block Sender" when instead I hit "Reply" and wrote,
To: Frankie Minot <>
Subject: Re: You Bastard
Date: Wed, 31 Oct 2001 12:50:56 -0600 (GMT-06:00)
You were the Author of NOTHING. All you did was walk
around Piddled at Gallery Openings and try to pick up
Young Boys, so don't be fucking with ME or trying to
plagiarize my Work, or I'll go Plagiarize your
Corpse. And your Little Dog, too.
See you in the Fire,
This Message is sent via webmail.neworleans.com with UXMail.
Please visit http:/index.htmlwebmail.neworleans.com to sign up.
And then I sent it, turned off my computer and went back to my Operating Room.
But before I did, I took a quick look at my working printout of Town Full of Hoors, which lay on my Writing Desk beside my Brother Word Processor. All of a Piece. After today, I had just One Chapter left to go.
Staring down at the Body of the man who had helped Mastermind the Nola Victory of The Battle of New Orleans, Part Two, I decided to do an Autopsy. Because I didn't know how he'd died, a seemingly healthy man, of no obvious Cause at the age of 47. He'd been found dead very early that morning, I'd been told, lying in a heap of little Sheets of Paper at his apartment on Burgundy Street but I just couldn't see a man like Fleetwhite offing himself, no note or Nothing, in the midst of one of the most Lucrative times of the Year for his Businesses, and indeed his body showed no signs of an Overdose of any sort, and there was nary a Mark upon it. I also quickly ruled out Cardiac Arrest and there was no evidence of Stroke, Hemorrhage, or Foul Play.
I was feeling tired by this time, and having determined I'd already had enough White Crosses for the day, I decided to boot up a little Guarana Extract when I heard the Mail being put in my box Outside the Door.
There were the usual letters addressed to Other People, for nowhere in the Country is the mail as inefficient as in New Orleans Metro, and there were free CD ROM disks trying to entice me to change my current ISP, among the other usual items of Junk Mail and flyers alerting me to the weekly Alcohol Specials at Robert's Fresh Market.
And then there was a postcard, addressed to Raphael Fleetwhite at MY address, postmarked New Orleans with yesterday's date and "PM" in the Postmark, the picture on which was that of one of our Fine Local Cemeteries (the one off I-10, in this Case), on which was written, "Weather's great. Wish you were here." And then at the bottom, in slightly smaller handwriting, "I had to kill you because you were Plagiarizing my Fucking Novel." Signed, "Fenton Rochilieu."
I wasted No Time Flat in getting back online to e-mail his ass at to ask him What the Fuck, but I immediately got back a Standardized Vacation Message which said simply, "Fenton Rochilieu Has Left the Building. Fuck You, Kermit, for Stealing my Woman and Forcing me to Turn to Hoors."
Well, Asshole, it's a Town FULL of 'em. Not the least of which was You.
I said to Hell with All That and left work early. It was Halloween, I had Plans, and Fleetwhite was obviously not in Need of my Assistance and could Wait.
And then there was the matter of my Book, my New Orleans Novel.
Just One More Chapter Left to Go.