Dear NSA: A Collection of Politically Incorrect Short Stories

by Harmon Cooper

  I suppose I should probably confess something else: I slept with your younger and arguably more beautiful sister after last year’s Christmas Party. I think you know what inspired this.

  Remember last Halloween when you went out with your girlfriends to those trendy bars in Manhattan? Well, one of your friends explained to me in vivid detail that you went home with Eric that night. My suspicions are confirmed every time I get drunk with Eric and he says something along the lines of: “Look, I slept with Melanie after last year’s Halloween Party. It’s cool though, we’re bros. My bad, man. Bros before hoes, for sure. I just figured I’d tell you. I don’t want that shit on my conscience.”

  What Eric doesn’t know is that we’re not bros. He also doesn’t know that I slept with his sister in the weeks following my rendezvous with your sister. For me, revenge apparently comes in the form of sibling adultery. I’m not saying it’s the right way, but it sure feels good to get revenge without resorting to violence or name calling.

  Let’s review your tally again: I will concede a little on the money owed to me in lieu of the fact your sister and I fornicated. From the principle balance owed to me of $272.98, I will subtract the $52.64 that I spent on the hotel room the night your sister and I hooked up. I will also subtract the $24.37 that I spent on drinks at the bar before we went to the hotel, as well as the $14 I spent on breakfast at McDonald’s the following afternoon. I will, however, add the cost of the morning after pill ($70) to the total owed to me because it’s your fault that I cheated on you to begin with.

  So, from the principle balance owed to me of $272.98, $91.01 will be subtracted, followed by the addition of $70 for the morning after pill. This brings the grand total owed to me to $293.99, which I’ll go ahead and round up to $294 to keep things simple.

  I guess this would be a good time to make a final confession: I seriously contemplated suicide after your sudden departure. Yes, it’s true, and no, I’m not proud of it. However, with so many different ways to kill myself, I ran into great difficulty deciding on the best way to go.

  I thought about going the autoerotic asphyxiation route, but quickly realized I couldn’t afford the trip to Thailand without selling off my 401K. Besides, I’ve never been that into bondage. Also, I hate closets and like Rudolf, I’m allergic to hemp.

  Being a movie buff, I also played with the tried and true method of wrist cutting, like the scene from The Royal Tenenbaums. I’ve since decided against it though, because I really couldn’t see myself parting with my brand new beard and I’m definitely not a big fan of Elliot Smith.

  Realizing I had no other options, I turned to the internet for suicide advice. On a blog, I found a recipe to make hydrogen sulfide. I was able to obtain the necessary calcium polysulfide from an insecticide I found at that little Mexican hardware store two blocks from your favorite bakery. I stole the necessary hydrochloric acid from a forgotten bottle of toilet bowl cleaner in Eric’s bathroom.

  Wearing goggles, as I didn’t want to get any of the chemicals in my eyes before I finished mixing, I carefully prepared the ingredients in the living room, Walter White-style. Just then, your sister called and I took the call in the other room. In the meantime, Rudolf drank the toilet bowl cleaner because he was drunk. From what I remember, I was drunk too.

  I regret to inform you that our former cat, Rudolf, is now dead. I buried him two days ago under the guise of night in that wild strip of green that separates our apartment block from that greasy Cuban sandwich shop. You can find Rudolf’s grave there if you wish to pay your respects.

  I also attempted to kill myself using my recently purchased Segway. I originally thought the best idea would be to drive the Segway off the top of our building. This would have created nothing short of a fiasco for our bastard of a landlord. In an interesting twist, it would have also paid homage to the Segway CEO’s accidental death. Two birds, one Segway. I gave up on the idea after I realized how difficult it would be to get the damn thing over our building’s parapet. Still, the urge to kill myself because of your sudden departure was strong.

  Waiting until it was dark and the drunks were out in Bushwick, I rode my Segway around shouting racial slurs and swerving in and out of traffic. This proved to be highly ineffectual. Growing tired of the angry mob that had started chasing me, I ducked into the subway leaving my Segway behind. I went to retrieve it the next day and discovered that my Segway had been severely vandalized. I blame PETA and the Occupy Movement.

  Regrettably, the cost to repair the Segway nearly exceeded the initial cost of the Segway. And being that it was your fault I’d been trying to kill myself in the first place, I think that it’s only fair that you also cover the cost of the Segway. Since the Segway cost $200, this brings the total owed to me to $494.

  My failed suicide attempts led me to consider hiring a hitman to finish the job I apparently couldn’t do myself. This raises a very important question: Is it still a suicide if you hire someone else to kill you and feign agreed upon ignorance during its happening? It sounds outlandish, but it definitely could work.

  You’d think in a city as big as New York I’d be able to find a hitman easily. I routinely checked the bulletin boards at the coffee shops in and around Williamsburg, but I’m not quite as up on the hitman lingo as I used to be. Most notably, I had problems distinguishing the difference between Help Wanted ads and hitman-for-hire ads. Aren’t they basically the same thing?

  Again, I should stress to you that the $494 owed to me should be easy to come by. People you could ask include your mother, whom I recently saw at the Manhattan Mall. She was raving madly about a new face cream made of bee venom from New Zealand and asked me if I’d like to try it out. I obliged, and as your mother slowly worked her freshly manicured fingers into my forehead, our eyes met and I felt my skin tighten.

  Rest assured: I didn’t sleep with your mother. I don’t know if she was drunk (possible), or just generally happy to see me, but she wined and dined me for the next three hours as we made our way around the mall. Apparently, you’d forgotten to mention our breakup.

  FYI – your mom bought me a pair of cheap headphones at RadioShack and a Dead Sea facial scrub package from a mall kiosk manned by a hot Palestinian chick. She also bought me Chinese food, vanilla ice cream, a pair of boxers from The Gap and one of those fifteen minute mall massages.

  In total, she ended up spending well over a hundred dollars on me, but who’s counting? Regarding your mother’s generosity, I’ve kindly decided to deduct the total she spent from the principle balanced owed to me. I’m now asking for $394 from you and not a penny less.

  People you shouldn’t ask for money include your former lover and my former best friend, Eric, who recently invested the little money he had into a meth lab that has yet to produce any meth. If in the near future he starts actually producing meth, he would be a good person to ask for money, as long as you don’t “fuck with his supply.” These are his words, of course. I have no idea what that means, even though I’ve watched the first three episodes of HBO’s The Wire. My drug lingo is about as good as my hitman lingo, which is why I have problems getting high and having people offed.

  Since this is my last e-mail to you, I feel like I should be totally honest, as if you were the detective and you were shining a bright light on me in an interrogation room, as if you were the priest and I was the penitent, the butter to my bread (I don’t think this works, but you get the picture).

  Without further ado: Rudolf our cat isn’t really dead and he never came close to dying. Your mother never bought me a fifteen minute mall massage. I haven’t actually started that Inuit diet that I mentioned. The Segway suicide portion of this e-mail was completely fabricated (although I did consider it). I didn’t quite sleep with Eric’s sister but we did make out, and I’m pretty sure she slipped her hand into my corduroys. I shaved my beard into a nice mustache three days ago. I’ve been consuming unholy amounts of glußwine and it’s starting to make me irritable and argumentative. I’m a
compulsive liar, but you already knew this. Your sister and I are taking our relationship to the next level (more on that later). Eric didn’t sink all his money into a meth lab. He did, however, blow most of it on blow and is now planning to blow the rest of it on rehab.

  All confessions aside, I almost did it one week ago. I almost took my life.

  Edward Scissorhands was on TV and something about those scissor fingers of his triggered a perverse response in me. As the movie played in the background, I went to the kitchen and grabbed a fillet knife from the Home Shopping Network set that your racist aunt bought us two years ago.

  Dropping to the floor, I pushed the knife against my flesh, counted slowly to three, and winced as it started to sting. I took another deep breath and began drawing blood. As a teardrop of blood appeared on my skin, I thought about what you’d said as you slammed the door, as you entered a new world without me, as you left me and Rudolf the cat to fend for ourselves in this crazy world of ours: “Honey, I’ll be back in two weeks. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

  Two weeks passed, then three, then a month, followed by a month and a half. You never contacted me, no matter how many e-mails, tweets or Facebook messages I sent you. The only reason I didn’t contact the authorities was because of your sister, who assured me that you were still alive and that you just needed some space.

  At the beginning of the second month of your prolonged absence, I got a goddamn postcard from Sao Paulo. The postcard informed me in your perfect little handwriting that you were breaking up with me and had taken a Brazilian lover. At that very moment, the moment the knife drew blood from my arm, I realized that while I had my faults, you were definitely more horrible than I could’ve even imagined, Melanie. You were the Voldemort to my Ron Weasley, the Tyrion Lannister to my Sansa Stark.

  Tossing the knife onto the floor, I came to the decision to curve my suicidal tendencies. At that very moment, Rudolf burst into the kitchen and began licking the blood off the tip of the knife. I drew my knees to my chest, watching his little cat tongue work its magic.

  Since you are in Brazil and I’m stuck in New York, collecting the $394 owed to me will prove exceedingly difficult. Now before I finish, you might protest saying that you only owe me $194 in lieu of the fact that the Segway was a senseless purchase, and never truly in need of repair. I’ve decided against adjusting the amount owed to me for sake of clarity and to avoid confusion. Also, the emotional damage these two and a half months have caused me is worth well over $200. You’re lucky I’m not asking for the full $500. No, $394 will do.

  By the time you read this e-mail, I’ll be on a plane to Sao Paulo to meet you. Your sister will be joining me. We’ll be staying at the Grand Hyatt in room 137. Please bring the money owed to me in US currency. I’d rather not deal with exchange rates. You can leave it with the concierge if we’re not there.

  Attached to this e-mail is a photo of Rudolf, your sister, and me wearing matching red tuxedos. Cute, huh? Also, your sister and I are planning to marry in Brazil. Destination weddings are all the rage this year. Any chance you’d like to be a bridesmaid?

  Yours cordially,

  Chad Kilmer

  From My Cold Dead Hands

  “You were right,” George is saying. “Damn if you weren’t right.”

  “Told you that much,” Sheldon says. “Ain’t that hard to see. Obozo gets another four years and by that time… well, you know how I feel about it.”

  They’re standing outside a bar in Smithville, a small Texas town where Hope Floats was filmed. George takes a long drag off his cigarette. “I know it. I was at Wally World the other day looking for some 9mm rounds. Of course they ain’t got none. Nothing there but an empty shelf.”

  “With dust on it,” Sheldon adds, ashing his cigarette. Marlboro Red, unfiltered.

  “Yeap, with dust on it. So I’m pissed.”

  “As you should be.” Sheldon hocks a loogie onto the weather-beaten curb. George sniffs real loud and wipes his nose on his red button-up. The top three buttons are undone and his curly chest hair is twisting out.

  “And so I’m walking back to my truck, and guess who it is…”

  “Bill Boyer?”

  “Yeap,” George says. “And he’s just sitting in his truck and looking at me with a grin on his face.”

  “And he’s got bullets, don’t he?”

  “You betcha, and he says to me, ‘George, you in the market?’ and I’m in the market so I say to him, ‘Bill cut the bull. What you got up in there?’”

  “He’s got 9mm’s, don’t he?”

  “Yeap.”

  “And how much did he want for them?” Sheldon asks.

  Sheldon has known George all his life. Too long, if you ask Sheldon. Not long enough, if you ask George. They grew up in Smithville together. Sheldon married and lived in Elgin for a while, but after he got divorced, it was back to his roots.

  George’s never been married, and that hot Texas sun and the nightly fifth of whiskey has taken its toll on his grizzled old face. Gnarled now. Gnarled at forty-seven-year like someone beat him with a pair of cheese graters. Only thing beautiful about the man is his piercing eyes, little blue things attached to crow’s feet under a wrinkled crown.

  “He charged me fifty bucks for a hundred rounds,” George mumbles. Covering his bald dome is a maroon baseball cap that says A&M. It casts a sad shadow over his eyes and nose.

  Just the thought of Bill Boyer taking advantage of his friend boils Sheldon’s blood. He tosses his cigarette to the ground and watches it fizzle against a yellow patch of grass. He wants it to start a fire, dares it. Bring it on, he thinks to Bill, to his government, to the world.

  “Boys.”

  It’s Wyatt Thompson, the oldest of the three. He’s somewhat of an inspiration to Sheldon. The man survives an angioplasty, a quadruple bypass, gets put on a pace maker, and still gots the eye of a hawk. Plus, he can pound beers with the best of them.

  Wyatt hands George and Sheldon a pair of Styrofoam cups. “LouAnne said it’d be alright to drink out here, so drink up. This round’s on me.”

  “Appreciate that,” George says.

  “So, what’s all this talk I hear about fifty bucks for a hundred rounds of 9mm’s? Who’s charging that?” Wyatt asks. He adjusts his belt, which barely seems to keep his girth from spilling over.

  “Bill Boyer. No other place to get ammo around here. I could go to Austin, but you know it’ll be gone there too,” George says.

  “I can’t believe they haven’t outlawed ammunition sales in old Austin yet. Damn hippies and vampire cops running that town. I can’t even stand driving through that liberal shithole.” Sheldon takes a sip from his beer and wipes the foam off his mustache.

  “I feel you there,” Wyatt says on the tail end of a burp. “But, George, I got to ask you, did you actually buy them rounds from Bill?”

  “I bought two hundred.”

  “Well, then the only idiot here is you,” Wyatt says. “It’s a dammed artificial shortage. There ain’t a real shortage of ammo. It’s people like Bill buying up the rounds and then hawking them to people like you. If you buy them, you drive up the price. Simple as that. Obama’s probably the best thing that’s happened to bullet manufacturers since the start of the Iraq War.”

  George says, “Well, when he outlaws bullets, we’ll see who’s laughing then, Wyatt.”

  “I got plenty. I bought a dozen mags and four tins of 5.45s about six months ago. I’ll be fine. Ain’t worried one bit.” Wyatt licks the front of his teeth like there’s a piece of jerky stuck in there.

  “This is just the start, you know,” George says. “Clinton’s the one that started that waiting period. Soon they’ll be doing background checks, then they’ll just ban them outright. That’s their goal. Ain’t that right, Sheldon?”

  Sheldon nods. “Right. It ain’t hard to see what they’re doing. It really ain’t that hard, Wyatt. Nazis did the same damn thing, and look what happened there. All that hoo
pla could’ve been stopped if someone had just put a bullet in the back of Hitler’s head. We’re just going about the whole banning process a little slower than the Nazis. That’s all.”

  “You boys are too paranoid,” Wyatt says. “Now, both of you know I’d give Obama the finger just as quickly as any other guy, but he ain’t going to be in power long enough to take our guns or our bullets. Dems keep trying, but America ain’t that stupid. Y’all need to quit worrying about that shit.”

  “You say that, until they come for you,” Sheldon mumbles, lighting another cigarette.

  “Yeap,” George agrees. He’s got that glazed look in his eyes that he gets every day at about four o’clock when the first drink settles in his belly.

  “Point is,” Sheldon says, “I saw this shit coming long before Obozo was re-elected. I bought ten cases of Golden Tigers – ten thousand rounds, mind you. That should hold them off.”

  “Ten thousand rounds!” Wyatt laughs.

  “You laugh now,” Sheldon growls. He’s angry, but not angry enough to say something to Wyatt. Too much respect for the man. He gives his Styrofoam cup to George. “Finish her for me, will ya? I got things to do.”

  “You take care now,” Wyatt says.

  ***

  If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, riddle them with bullets.

  Sheldon didn’t write that quote, doesn’t write much. Don’t matter anyhow. It’s a good signature for his profile on Targetpractice’s online message board, where he goes by the name AmmoNut. He’s a star member now, and he’s made over two thousand posts since Chairman Obama was elected. He’s proud of that. He knows they’re coming for him; it’s just a matter of time.

  His signature used to be, Happiness is a road lined with crosses and Jihadists nailed to them. He used this signature for maybe six months. Before that it was a quote from Gandhi. He liked that quote from Gandhi – it gave the socialists a run for their money. He imagined them looking at the message board and being abhorred. Take a guy who does all this shit for India in the name of peace. Take his own quote and spin it on them: I do believe that where there is a choice between cowardice and violence, I would advise violence.