Memo From The Sports Desk

Johnny,
Listen you brutal savage, you've scared the shit out
of the cleaning lady for the last time! It's bad enough
you call the editorial offices at all hours, raving in the
phone and frightening the cleaning staff... but the
faxes have gone too far.

Bleeding Christ on a broken crutch that shit isn't even
legal in most states! Plus she's heartbroken. She's
gone all to pieces, she mopes around here for days,
listlessly polishing the meth cookers and mumbling
'Mista Brock, he come soon?' You really got her
hopes up, you evil sot.

I had to take the 12 gauge away from her the
other morning after she woke me up racking shells
into it at the foot of my bed. She struck out at me
like a cornered dog and screamed 'Mista Brock, he
come for Milena, he gonna buy Milena a hat!'
Then she collapsed in the corner, sobbing.
I couldn't get any work out of her all day.

Don't call here! The police have the phones tapped.
Call Sparks, or TS. They've got your shit. It's not
here! We keep the FCN offices clean! Rick Himes
told me he's not returning your calls and to tell
you he's dead.

Robbie Parker is in hiding, the fucking Mounties
have a dragnet out for him and his wife and they
blame you. They said you tried to perform some
kind of king-hell 'medical experiment' on them
and that it turned their skin permanently blue.
The only place they can hide is in the Blue Man
Group -- oops, sorry Robbie, I just blew your
cover...