Dear Harry:
So now you’re dead and what did all those thirty-five years mean anyway? I remember your throwing homing pigeons into the air and they never came back. Amazing. They just never did. And all that pot you smoked and the bad music you listened to, The Bee Gees and Kiss, what good will it do you now? And the dusty roads and the crisp new Corvette you owned, and the fat girls you loved to fuck, easy kill, you said, but that was you, always taking the path of least resistance, and you never once had a boned-faced girl.
And your family had more money than mine; sure, I blamed you for that. The immaculate farm where your father nearly worked me to death, do you remember, Harry? You laughed at me while I picked beans and baled the cotton. I hated you, but I never showed it. Always held my anger back, because that’s what was expected of me. One day, I knew revenge would be sweet, and I held out for the boned-faced girls with dark hair and slender legs.
You ignorant son-of-a-bitch, Harry. I knew you were no good from the start, but did you have to make it so easy, like your big fat life. Poor bastard. Shot dead in Pearl River, Louisiana, on a Saturday night fighting over some nameless whore in the worst place imaginable. You made it too easy, Harry; I never had to lift a finger to see your demise. The earth must be cold where you are, old friend. But no hard feelings, eh? Rest well, Harry, the grave becomes you. I’ll take care of your father myself.
