January 23rd, 2002
London, England
Dear Pegwick,
How long has it been, oh dear one of mine, since we
have written? The years seem to pass so quickly now. I was
falling down my attic stairs today and as I tumbled down, I
caught a fraction of a second glance at our elementary
yearbook. My hip is alittle out of sorts but the doctor
assured me that I could walk on it in about 5 years. So
then, in five years, you and I shall have a glorious walk
through the park. I will make sure of that, dear one. Did I
stray from my point, Pegwick? I shall manage to remember
whatever I was writing about. But before then, I must tell
you that my daughter, Francina Calcutta Amelia the III is
getting married in two months. It seems like yesterday she
turned 45. The man is glorious and very, very rich, just
like I had hoped for. Melanie, my wife and unfourunatly
loyal companion for 30 years, thinks the world of him as
well, which is why I insist you meet him when I invite you
up this summer. It will be just like the old times except
instead of knocking each others lunch trays over, it will be
bedpans. But no worry old friend, I will always keep mine
full, just for you. And how have you faired these past
decades? Filthy rich as you wished those long boyhood years
ago? Voluputous woman with red tinted hair and blue eyes?
Melanie is alittle sore on the eyes ever since her accident
with her curling iron. I haven’t a blasted idea what women
need with curling irons. If God had wanted her to have curls
in her hair then that would be the end of it. But, noooo,
Melanie had to have curls for Regina Contessa Nicolina
Marina the IV coming out party. As she bent over, tying the
last bit of fat from her thigh up into a ball, our cat
Mollina Chastina Duchess the V (I will relate to her fatal
adventures later) decided to do her daily bathing routine on
top of Regina’s dresser and swayed her fat feline tail upon
the scolding hot curling iron, giving a rather ear piercing
howl then jumping up onto the ceiling. Melanie tried
stopping the curling iron from tumbling down to the floor,
ruining her new Persian imported rug but instead stopped it
with her nose. Smushed and melted beyond recognition my
wife’s nose became. I persuaded her to get rid of the cat
but Mollinas own stubborness became her own undoing, as she
would not release herself from the ceiling. After about a
week, we had to have pest control take her down. Pegwick, I
swear to you on this, the cat even after death and rotting
did not unclutch its nails from that ceiling. Melanie and
Regina were quite distraught for a few days until they
discovered a tiny rat living in our kitchen. That kept them
busy until I took care of it. Its amazing how much those
good-for-nothing clerks can charge you for mouse traps these
days. Do you remember when it only cost 2 cents? Aww,
Pegwick, those were the good old days, weren’t they?
So, dear friend, have you gone and married yourself?
Most often I fantasize being a bachelor, you know, just once
again. But when I stare down at these wrinkly old hands and
these dusty toupes, I realize that Melanie (at my delicate
age) is the best its going to get. Shes a rather cranky old
bird, especially after the accident. And Regina and Francina
aren’t too much different, though they’d like to think so.
And when she drinks too much, as she often does, she becomes
more irritating and disconcerting than I could have ever
percieved she could be when I married her those regretful
years ago. Oh, but dear friend, please refrain from getting
the wrong idea about my wife. She isn’t always a grumpy,
drunken and sordid hag because sometimes shes worse. And
although I love her dearly, I would frequently love nothing
more than to punch the living daylights out of her. You
realize this, that I’d only do it for her own good, of
course, right Pegwick? Well, I’m afraid the tranquilizers
are setting in now. If I have rambled on, it might be the
Prozac. I wait in anticipation for your returning letter and
until then, aur revior.
Your old friend,
Charles R. Mesterhends
London, England
Dear Pegwick,
It was an absolute delight to hear from you! I recieved
your letter as Melanie served me more of her revolting
chicken soup. I am set on the fact that what ever putrid
meat she has cooked into or with that liquid mess was not
chicken but a solid toxin to kill me. So, you have gone and
married yourself. Good for you, dearest Pegwick! I hope she
treats you somewhat better than my wife or else I have great
pity upon you. Devonne? That is a familiar name to me. I
believe I had a manhood crush on a French model when I was
23 named Devonne. Aww, 23. Do you remember it, Pegwick? My
youngest daughter, Paula, just turned 23. Just the other day
I asked her what it felt like and she told me that even if
she could describe it, I would never be able to comprehend
it. That I think was the first time I ever choked on my own
spit. She thought I was having a heart attack and called
Melanie. So commenced shoving of the soup time and as if
that wasn’t killing me enough, a local doctor thought it
would best if he took my temperature from my opposite end.
Oh Pegwick, it was a glorious day. But enough about me, what
has been happening with you since last Monday? My son, Peter
Cheswick Grant the II introduced me to his girlfriend the
other day. Pretty little thing she was and intelligent too,
which was a relief considering his last girlfriends brain
was as liquidy as Melanies God awful soup. I recall her
asking me if I knew who Norman Bates was, since everyone was
always using his name. I cleared my throat, confessed he was
a splendid young lad and told them I was feeling tired.
Youths these days, wasting thier educations away with
writing notes and love letters and drugs. Do you remember
ever being so silly, Pegwick? Ah, my dear daughter Paula has
come to see me so I shall be short this time. Fair well and
until your next letter, aur revior.
Your dear friend,
Charles R. Mesterhends
February 3rd, 2002
-Heather