FICTION: Letter to a Mentor By Joseph Lewis Szabo III

Dear Ronnie:

I took care of that little Bessie with the pair of pliers you bought for me last Christmas. I like the grip on the tool; especially the leather handle and the spikes you tricked out on the head. It's funny when you think about it but girls usually try to talk their way out of the situation when they see the equipment. This one didn't even bother to negotiate. It was "HELP ME" this and "LET ME OUT" that. What fun is snuffing them out if they don't even try gabbing their way to freedom?



She was far from boring though. She tried playing to my humanity by saying what God would think of me if I did this and all that other bullshit. She doesn't even know its God making me perform these acts. It's his hand, which reaches inside my heart, telling me what to do with the flesh, which in turn makes me stronger.



You know I'm a total Darwin freak even though it goes against my church beliefs.



Since the last time I wrote, I took care of the cooler problem. That damn freezer hasn't worked right since I got it. It took the repairmen nearly three hours to finish the job. Before he came, I removed all my favorite tidbits in a smaller pantry in the basement; hearts, lungs, tongues (human and steer), another set of kidneys and blood pudding (always human).



My latest prey was Sandra O'Conner. Her kidneys are next to the meatloaf.



I know, meatloaf is gross but sometimes I like eating what the common folk consume. It's like white wine with strawberries; for some reason it just taste better.



I would like to know what projects you're currently working on. I feel lonely if I'm the only one doing God's will. You appear like the kind of person who understands the craft better then anyone else. You live and breathe for it.



Since I saw your first prey spread out on the front pages of old newspapers and rebroadcasted on the local news, I knew I found a kindred soul in this world. Your slicing along the epidermis is amazing. You managed to find the right spots, making them suffer longer while at the same time not bruising the outer flesh. Good thing I checked all those hospitals and butchers. If I didn't find you at St. Francis, I may never have known your name and we wouldn't be trading our correspondence.



I was shocked to find that you had a workshop for people like us.



What blew me away was how so many good artists were involved. It's not like you can put commercials on the TV or advertise in the local paper. When you told me you also admired other peoples work in your youth and how you didn't formulate in your mind the idea for the place until you were fifty, well, gee, I was more then surprised. I'm mean, how do you walk; your balls must be the size of basketballs. It takes great courage to put something like this together and you did it without even so much as a flinch.



Let's talk about your crusade: How's Debra? Did you find her yet?



Since your last letter, you wrote she went missing in December; sorry for your loss. When my wife left me I couldn't even perform, but eventually I got over it. I know this is not the same thing but I can still somewhat relate to your dilemma.



Trust me, she'll be back. I've always thought she was a pretty thing, your little homemaker. Maybe the guy who took her is giving her the injections. I know how scared you were of her being a diabetic and going without her insulin. If he's as good as we are, he'll keep her alive for as long as possible.



I can still smell those blueberry muffins from her stove. I would give anything to have those morsels sitting in my stomach right now.



Well, at least I can understand why the man took her. If one of the fellows from the group wanted to quench his thirst for flesh, he would obviously abduct your lovely. I mean, you're not going to call the cops. The first person the police would suspect is you and with your many skeletons, quite literally, in your closet, you'd be arrested on the spot. I'm sure she'll be fine and even if the bastard kills her, you'll meet her in heaven when it's your time.



I'll see what the Lord can do for you.



Anyway, I found a new girlfriend. She likes blueberry muffins as much as I. Well, so far that is the only thing she'll eat. I have her chained in the basement. I might have to check the lock. For some reason when she struggles, the pole around the latch is left screeching throughout the whole house. I had guests over last week and they complained about it. I stapled her lips shut so she couldn't scream; man was that sound annoying. I have to pry them loose for her to eat. It's a hassle to restaple but what is a guy to do.



I think I'm in love.



Well, make sure to remind me when the next meeting will be held. Don't forget to send the quarterly newsletter, I can't wait to see what arts & crafts have been doing. Also, I love the column Marty is writing; you know I never thought of using prey's bones for making bread. That was very interesting.



Remember, try to find Debra. Write me back.



With all my love and respect,



Douglas Monahan.







Bio:



Joseph Szabo is a writer of the weird, dangerous and sometimes true. He's been putting ink to paper for several years now and has recently braved the storm of getting his work published. He lives with his family, loves Speculative Fiction and manages to write every single day all within God's country of Western Pennsylvania.