I know you, and I know your nature. You will be crawling back on your hands and knees. And that’s what really frosts me. Because as I write this, I’m disgusted with you. In two weeks, I will have forgotten that you ever existed. And when you see yourself in my book, when you see how deftly I captured your pathetic essence—then, dear heart, you will be the one who is devastated, humiliated, and utterly destroyed! You will suffer agonies that you have never imagined—you thought last time was “excruciating”? Baby, you don’t even know the meaning of the word. You are one stupid fucking bitch! And you’ll find there’s nothing you can hit me with. My wife read the book; she knows my proclivities all too well. You cannot get back at me this time. I am the victor. In two mere weeks—fourteen days—(that’s right, sugar pie, the clock is already running) you will be nothing but a long-forgotten memory. I won’t know you anymore. Two short weeks and you are forever dead to me. I’ve got better things to worry about than your sorry ass. The “novel,” if you dare read it, will fill you with impotent rage. I held back nothing. Slap your $24.95 on the table. This whole thing was a setup, a hustle: Lisa, the babies—everything. You may ask yourself why? Why am I such an evil cocksucking bastard? That’s a fair question, dear heart, and the answer is this: Even I don’t know the true extent of my evil genius. I just am and I revel in what I am. You want to escape notoriety when it hits the bestseller list, move to Albania or wherever. That’s right, go ahead—feel free and just have yourself a happy little New Year’s. You know something, Carol? I hate you and you can suck my motherfucking dick.

As always, I remain your obliged humble servant.

Farouk, King of the Assholes

All Along the Watchtower