Tucson Man Threatens to Launch Missile

North Korea has nothing on US, when it comes to nuts. Horror or humor? You decide.

A HELPING HAND (a radio drama)

{SFX:  A screen door opens and shuts.  Walking across floor.  Freddy’s voice is somewhat wimpish.}

FREDDY}  What’s wrong with you two?  Look like the world just ended.
{SFX:  Woman takes puff at cigarette.}
MOTHER IN LAW} You’ve done it this time, haven’t you.
FREDDY}  Look, you can have the car now.
MOTHER IN LAW}     The Rambler?  That’s generous.  You know you coulda bought a luxury car for the same price as that thing out there.  What were you thinking?
FREDDY}    No, what were you thinking?  That you’d drive some new car? A Lexus, maybe?  That it?  I’m the one with the job here, Edna.
{Mother in law laughs.}
FREDDY}    I told you I wanted my own transportation.  I’m tired of waiting for you to show up after one of your shopping sprees halfway across Tucson. . .spending my money. {A beat}  Our  money.
MOTHER IN LAW}  You did this on purpose, didn’t you?  So we couldn’t drive     it.  You’re too much of a wimp for something that big, anyway.  And the payments on that. . .thing.  How are we gonna afford something new around here now?  You think my Social Security will pay for it?  Eh, Freddy?
FREDDY}    Pay for what?
MOTHER IN LAW} For a baby.
FREDDY}    But. . .we don’t have a baby.
WIFE, sobbing}    And we never will.
{SFX:  MUSIC:  “Born To Be Wild.” A Harley motorcycle is heard to start up, after several attempts to kick-start it fail, with muffled curses. The motorcycle pulls away finally, and roars down the street.  Traffic sounds as the big bike roars through it.  Transition, the music and traffic fades.  Freddy is touring now, and the motorcycle gives a steady rumble.  Freddy’s unspoken thoughts are heard.}
FREDDY, filtered}  Finally, I can hear myself think. . . freedom. . . yes. . .way out here on a dirt road, away from the traffic, away from. . . from everybody. . . almost like I never married Julie and. . . her mother. . . almost. . .
MOTHER IN LAW, filtered memory}  You’re too much of a wimp for something that big, anyway.
FREDDY, laughing}  Right.  But I got the last laugh, didn’t I, Edna?
{SFX:  The motorcycle is heard to dwindle away, along with Freddy’s laughter.  From a long distance now it is heard to approach.  A cow’s mooing is heard as it ambles through the thickets.  The motorcycle gets louder as the cow pads across the dirt road.  Then the motorcycle roars closest. . . a scream, a braking, and the long slide of a wreck.  The cow moos again, and ambles back into the thicket.  The motorcycle coughs and dies.  A bird is heard.  Then a moan.  A panting as Freddy turns over, pushes the motorcycle off him, and gets up.}
FREDDY, filtered thoughts} Didn’t see him. . . too late. . . damn. . . damn. . . but hey. . . doesn’t look too bad. . . just a broken mirror. . . lucky it was dirt, and I’m wearing leather. . . now, get my breath. . . get it back up from this ditch. . .
{SFX:  Straining as Freddy tries to lift the bike.  It moves but settles back.  He tries again, without luck.  It gives a little beep.}
FREDDY, filtered} Damn. . . too heavy. . . too big. . . too big for me. . . damn. . . need help. . .
{SFX:  Sound of keys, as he gets them.  Panting and then walking across dirt and gravel.}
FREDDY, filtered}   Where am I?  . . .Way out in the middle of nowhere, in the desert. . . scrub brush, mesquite, open rangeland. . . maybe if I climb this hill I’ll see the highway. . . route eighty-three connecting to the interstate. . . maybe there’s a ranch house . . .someone to help. . . geez, starting to get hot already . . .
{SFX:  The walking becomes uneven as Freddy climbs uphill, panting and brushing past bushes}
FREDDY}   Ouch!
FREDDY, filtered} Cactus. . . sharp. . . scrapes on my new leather now, great. . .almost to the top. . .
{SFX:  Grunting and final quick climbing, then panting silence.  Wind whistles in the cactus spines.}
FREDDY, filtered} There’s eighty-three, way over there. . . but what is that? A big hump in the desert. . . like an igloo. . . a house,     maybe?  . . . One of those environmentalist wackos, they would hate motorcycles too, worse than Edna.  
MOTHER IN LAW, filtered memory} Don’t you blame me, Freddy.  I’m not to blame.  You shoulda seen what was ahead for you.  You was born to lose.
FREDDY, filtered} Yeah, right. . .  Whatever it is, gotta get past it, over the fence beyond, and over to eighty-three. . . then I can put out my thumb. . . a little traffic over there. . . tourists looking at the saguaros and coyotes. . . maybe somebody’ll stop, take pity. . . getting thirsty. . .
{SFX:  He hurries down the slope, occasionally scraping himself and cursing.  Then he walks over gravel, evenly again.}
FREDDY, filtered} Weird looking thing, all concrete. . . no windows or doors. . . a big concrete igloo sticking up outta the sand. . .what in the devil is it?
{SFX:  A deep humming sound is emitted as Freddy pauses.}
FREDDY, filtered} What the hell is that? . . . It’s coming from inside the thing.
FREDDY, loudly}  Anybody here?
{SFX:  The humming is accompanied by a mechanical rumbling, as if a metal door was sliding open underground.}
FREDDY, filtered} Wow, actually felt that . . . in the ground.  What is this, power plant, relay station?  Buried cable, maybe.  
{SFX:  Walking continues}
FREDDY, filtered} Gotta get over the fence, get to the highway, get help. . .
{SFX:  Walking stops, then scratching sound as wire twangs and Freddy attempts to get over the fence.}
FREDDY, filtered} Damn.  Gotta get the top wire off. . . I’ll use this rock.
{SFX:  A hammering sound as Freddy uses a rock on the fence post.  A distant walking sound approaches, but Freddy is grunting with the effort of hammering.  Then a gun is cocked.  An old man speaks.}
KYLE}  Can’t read signs?
FREDDY}    Who. . . whaaa–?  
KYLE}  You heard me.  Like the one back there at the. . .Well, I’ll be damned, they did it again.
FREDDY}   Did what?
KYLE} Or maybe it was you did it.  You take down the chain with my sign on it?
FREDDY}    What sign?  Didn’t see no damn sign.
KYLE}  Keep out sign.  Means—
FREDDY}    Don’t point that thing at me!  There was no sign.  I wrecked by bike over there, and I need help lifting it.  . . . Damn it.
KYLE, chuckles} . . . Nice jacket. . . Name’s Kyle Sommers.  This is my place, now.
FREDDY}   Your. . . place?
KYLE} Bought it for a retirement home years ago. Went on vacation to see my son in Florida a month ago, an’ when I got back somebody had stolen my sand.  It’s high grade stuff, that sand.  Air Force trucked it in here back in the 60s when they built this place.  Kept the place cool as a rabbit’s burrow.
FREDDY}    Or a snake’s.
KYLE}  What was that?
FREDDY}   Nothing.
{SFX:  Freddy drops the rock, they start walking slowly back across gravel}
KYLE}  Used a dump truck, the thievin’ bastards. Uncovered my control room.
FREDDY}   Control room?
KYLE}  A’ course.  This here’s an old Titan missile base, didn’t you know that?  
FREDDY}   Holy. . .
KYLE} Half a dozen of ‘em out in the desert.  One’s a museum, ya know.  Another was bought by some guy from New Jersey plans to turn it into a cafe.  The Lame Duck.
{Kyle chuckles}
FREDDY}    And you live here?
KYLE}  Why not?  Got a storage tank underground, fed by a well.  Generator too.  I burn candles mostly, though.  Make my own.
FREDDY}   Doesn’t it get. . . I mean. . .
KYLE}  Think I’m ready for the nursin’ home?  Not me.  It’s a kick fixing things up.  Actually, I bought two sites, use the other one for spare parts.   
FREDDY}   That so.
KYLE} Yes sir. . .got me a TV, books.  And there’s no chance of some punk comin’ in and holding a knife to my throat. An’ if there’s an accident at Hughes Missile systems in town?. . . or somebody drops the Big One?  I guess I’ll live through that too, won’t I.  Will you?
{Kyle laughs squeakily, and Freddy mimics the laugh.}
FREDDY}   Quite a hobby, I’ll admit that.  But you’re alone here, then?
KYLE} Wife’s in Florida with my son. ‘Cept he ain’t young anymore.  No sir’ee.
FREDDY}    They ever been here?
KYLE}  We’re not on speaking terms anymore.  Wife. . . she poisoned him against me.
{They stop walking.}
FREDDY}    You reckon you could give me a hand with my bike?  Ran into the ditch to miss a cow, and I can’t lift it.
KYLE} Sure, I suppose I could do that.  I keep fit. You wanna have a look-see at my setup first?  Don’t get many visitors.
FREDDY}    You got water in there?  I’m getting thirsty.
KYLE} ‘Course I got water.  Well water.  From deep.  There’s a reinforced tunnel other side. . . my pickup’s over there too.
{SFX:  They continue walking.}
KYLE}  See?  This way.
{SFX:  The walking finally stops.  A metal door is thrown open.  Then walking down stairs.  Their voices are heard as if in a tunnel.}
KYLE} I removed the unnecessary fixtures.  Just watch your head on the reinforcement bars.
{SFX:  They shuffle ahead, now.}
FREDDY}   What did you do?  I mean for a living.
KYLE}  I was an engineer.  Civil engineer.  You?
FREDDY}    I. . .ah. . . repair air conditioners.  Sell’em too.
KYLE}  That right?  Well, maybe you can help me with mine.
FREDDY}   What I mean is those small window units.  Don’t know much about industrial models.
KYLE}  You’ll have a look anyway, won’t you?
{They continue to move forward again.  Freddy doesn’t answer.}
KYLE}  I didn’t need it before, but with that sand gone, I. . .  Here we are.
{SFX:  Inner lock opens.  The door creaks open.}
KYLE} Watch your feet.
{SFX:  There are clicking and buzzing sounds, and a distant rumbling sound.}
FREDDY}   Holy mother of. . .  Don’t beam me up yet, Scotty!  What’s that rumbling sound?
KYLE}  Generator.  Don’t usually run it.  Uses fuel.
FREDDY}   Geez.
KYLE}  Monitors give readouts of system functions.  Temperature, humidity, that kind of thing.
FREDDY}   But. . . there’s a missile in there now!
KYLE}  Just a video tape, for effect.  Pretty authentic, eh?
{SFX:  Channel changing}
KYLE}  See, it’s a TV too.  The Price is Right.  And it was.
{Kyle laughs, and Freddy mimics then joins the laughter.}
FREDDY}    Those springs keep this room safe from shock waves?  
KYLE}    Handle anything but a direct hit.
FREDDY}    This is great.  Bit warm, though.
KYLE}    Got everything fired up right now, except that air conditioner.  Yes sir’ee, Bob.
FREDDY}   Freddy.
{Kyle chuckles.}
FREDDY}    You know you could get five bucks a head here, easy.  Run a tour!
KYLE}   Don’t have to do that.  Not yet.
FREDDY}   Damn lucky.
KYLE}   No, no.  It’s been hard work.  Hard—
FREDDY}    –You don’t know how lucky. . .  More lucky than me, stuck with Carol’s mother. . .an’ my boss. . . all the traffic in the city there.  Can’t get away.  Ya know?
KYLE}  You wanna lend me a hand with that air conditioner now?  Then I’ll help you with your bike.
FREDDY}   Can I get some water first?  
KYLE}    Yeah, sure.  Living quarters through there.
FREDDY}   Thanks.
{SFX:  Freddy walks over metal.  The clicking sounds behind him fade.}
KYLE, distantly}  Watch your feet.
{SFX:  Freddy slips, and recovers, then continues walking.}
FREDDY, filtered thoughts}  Hey, Edna, guess what?  I got me a missile bunker, and when the Big one hits you gonna be outside without a key.
EDNA, filtered}   Freddy. . .
FREDDY, filtered}  No grandson for you to poison against me, no ma’am.
EDNA, filtered}   Freddy, you come back here!  You hear me?
{SFX:  Edna’s last words echo into silence in his mind.  He stops walking.}
FREDDY, filtered}  Kinda bleak.  A single bare bulb, bare stone ceiling, Army cot, sink, dresser.  Toilet too, with the lid up.  Not married,     for sure.  No sir’ee, Bob.  . . . What’s this, though?  Odd photo.  That his son?  I shouldn’t, but. . .
{SFX:  A drawer sliding open}
FREDDY, filtered} Scrapbook.
{SFX:  Pages turning}
FREDDY, filtered} Newspaper clipping. . . “lawsuit unsuccessful. . . Dr. Kyle Sommers, an engineer for Davis/Monthan’s Systems Compliance unit, failed in his attempt to sue the Veterans Administration over its refusal to take his son Patrick’s case.  Patrick Sommers, Dr. Sommers’ only son, died of heart failure resulting from complications connected to Agent Orange disbursement during the Vietnam War.”
KYLE, distantly}  You okay in there?
FREDDY, filtered}  Damn.
FREDDY}  Yeah, thanks, just taking a whiz.
FREDDY, filtered}  “It was thought at the time that the defoliant would not have toxic effects, and the VA in Tucson has so far failed to accept such cases from area veterans. . . Arizona Daily Star, August 11, 1973.”  
{SFX:  Scrapbook is shut, drawer closed.  Then sink water runs, and Freddy is heard to drink.}
FREDDY, filtered}  His son died, so why. . .  What’s that over there–a closet?
{SFX:  Walking.  Then a door is opened, a light is clicked on}
FREDDY, filtered}  My God. . .  Enough food here to feed the crew of an aircraft     carrier.  . . . Hormel Chili, Del Monte Fruit Cocktail, Campbell’s Split Pea soup, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. . . Hamburger Helper, but no hamburger, just that little helping hand. . . card table too, game of solitaire. . . this place is. . . is. . . great.
{SFX:  a rumbling sound; the light buzzes as it flickers}
FREDDY, filtered} What was that?  . . . Gotta go.
{SFX:  light clicks off, door closes, then walking.  The toilet flushes.  Then walking across metal as the clicking and buzzing sounds near}
FREDDY}    Had to use your toilet.  Hope ya don’t mind.
KYLE}    Well, you must be piss poor now.
FREDDY, chuckles}  How’d you know?  . . .My bike, it’s ‘bout the nicest thing I ever owned.
KYLE}   That right?
{SFX:  toggles and throws levers are flipped.  The rumbling sound gets louder.}
KYLE}    You about ready to give me a hand with this air conditioning system?
FREDDY}    I guess.  Where is it?
KYLE}    That console near the wall over there, see it?
{SFX:  Walking on metal}
FREDDY}   This?  Looks old.  Old as you.  
KYLE}    Just a relay.
FREDDY}   But I’m really not familiar with—
KYLE}    Don’t matter.  You just. . .you push and turn that red key that’s—
FREDDY}   This one?
KYLE}    That’s the one, but wait a sec. . .at the count of three, okay?
{SFX:  the rumbling begins to turn deafening}
FREDDY}    You gonna help me lift my bike afterward, right?
KYLE}    Your bike?  Oh sure.  You think I can’t?  Think your old man’s too frail, do ya?
FREDDY}    I didn’t say—
KYLE}    Steady now.  Cross your fingers.   
FREDDY}    Listen, I need to ask you. . .
KYLE}    Ready?
FREDDY}    Wait, about your son . . .
KYLE}    Huh?  Can’t hear ya!
FREDDY, filtered} Poor old geezer, pretending his son’s still alive, locking himself up like this.
KYLE}    Ready?  . . . One. . .
FREDDY, filtered}  Plenty of bastards to hide here from, but if people only pulled together, helped each other out. . .
KYLE}    Two. . .
FREDDY, filtered} . . . it’d be all right.
KYLE}   Three!
{SFX:  Key turns. The rumbling turns into a roar.  Sommers laughs as the entire complex rumbles, and then the sound gradually subsides} 

FREDDY}    Hey, I don’t. . . I don’t feel any cool air.
{SFX:  A toggle switch is thrown}
KYLE}    How about now?
{SFX:  A fan comes on}
FREDDY}    Yeah, there it is.  It’s working.
KYLE}    Amazing, huh.
{SFX:  All the clicking and buzzing noises are shut down one by one}        
FREDDY}   What. . . are you doing, now?
KYLE}  Shutting down.  The show’s over.  For now.
FREDDY}   You gonna help me with my bike?
KYLE}  Sure thing.  In about a year or so.  After all, one good turn deserves another.  Right?
FREDDY}   What do you mean?
{SFX:  A distant roaring explosion is heard.  Springs creak.  Then the sounds all subside into silence, only a distant occasional dripping sound is heard}
KYLE}  Now, was there something you wanted to ask me, son?
{Eerie ending music}  -0-

(This drama by your editor aired on radio in 2004. If your station would like to produce or air any of our productions, see About to contact.)

Writing and Insanity

April 2
.
    Dear Sir,
    While we at Stillwater Press appreciate your considering us as a possible publisher for your “latest potential bestseller,” we nonetheless find it inappropriate for our audience, which consists mainly of formerly devout Catholics in search of inner peace as they leave the faith to follow humanistic, non-religious lifestyles.  In other words, we do not publish advice or self help books purportedly rendered by fictitious and/or mythic gods or goddesses.  Your suggested title ZEUS COMES OUT, while amusing, would hardly resonate with our readers, nor would any of the other titles which you propose for the book, such as THE WORLD ACCORDING TO ZEUS, or ZEUS ON MARS, ATOP VENUS, or ZEUS VISITS MAIN STREET–PICKETS WALL STREET, and especially not CHICKEN SOUP, ANYONE?–FAVORITE RECIPES FROM MT. OLYMPUS.  No doubt you have tried all the major publishing houses with your “latest potential bestseller” under these and other titles, and they too have turned you down.  And so you have come to us, now, desperate but perhaps naive, thinking that we are somehow naive as well.  
    Normally, as you must be painfully aware, when a publisher rejects a book, it returns the book with a pre-printed form rejection letter or slip, sometimes of pastel color, saying what I am saying here:  ie., that it “doesn’t meet our needs at this time.”  I am taking the time to write you this letter because you may not be getting the message, even after receiving a sufficient number of such rejection letters to compress into slow burning logs and keep a family of four warm for the Montana winter.  What am I saying?  Simply that no one is going to publish this book, sir.  Do you understand?  No one.  Not Bantam, not Warner, not HarperCollins, not Aardvark Press of Newark.  Not even St. Martins.  If you want it published, I suggest calling the 800 number to Vantage Press, and getting out your checkbook.  Although I must tell you, even they may be reluctant.  For whoever publishes your “latest potential bestseller,” it will inevitably be used as fill under freeways once it bombs at Dollar General.  
    Somehow I feel the need to emphasize this, and to rephrase it for you.  You will never be on Oprah’s Next Chapter, or her Appendix either.  Trust me.  You won’t even make the Wickenburg Sentinel or the Clucksbury Gazette, after the obits.  The only radio you will ever be heard on is Channel 14, but only if you happen to own a CB.  The truckers who hear you will probably switch to Channel 15, or tune in Waylon Jennings on the AM once they hear whatever title you ultimately arrive at choosing.  Am I getting through to you yet?  If I didn’t have a conscience, I would suggest a book doctor or editorial service which will charge you two thousand dollars only to make your manuscript even less marketable, but many of those people are now either in jail or under indictment.  
    Give it up, sir, and get a life!  You do not need to do this to yourself!  Did you know there are literally hundreds of thousands of bored housewives, plumbers, lobbyists, bartenders, and swizzle stick makers who, just like yourself, also hope to add “published author” to their name, and are willing to give up their other identities, their free time, their hobbies, their friends, and even their Direct TV subscriptions to do it?  Do you have any idea how many people are writing books and screenplays at this very moment, some of which are actually good, and yet will never, ever see the light of day?  Here’s the bottom line:  If you’re not famous already—if Kris Jenner wouldn’t actually give you the finger for getting in her way—you have a better chance playing the lottery, sir.  That’s the truth, or the your priest’s not a pedophile.  And I’m talking about if you have a good book to sell, which you and half a million other people just like you do not.  Do you understand any of this?  
    We are a tiny press, sir, with a niche audience.  By “we,” of course, I mean just me and my wife Allison, when she isn’t selling real estate or burping the baby.  If I thought you had a creamsickle’s chance in hell of having a “potential bestseller” here, do you not think that I would snatch it and buy it instead of using the time I’ve set aside for popping plastic packing bubbles to write you this letter?  Why am I doing this?  I am asking myself this question, now.  Call it charity, a favor.  You owe me big time, I think, sir.  In fact, I’ve just now decided to do you yet another monumental favor by destroying your manuscript instead of returning it.  The U.S. Postal Service and my ex-lawyer Bernie both tell me that anything which I receive unbidden in the mail becomes my property to do with as I please.  I can only pray that you do not possess another copy of this “potential bestseller” to continue your charade, and I do not want to know if you do.  I will sleep better that way, my service to humanity realized.  
    Someday you will, perhaps, thank me for curing you of this addiction, sir, which can be just as overwhelming and time-wasting as sports addictions or counting one’s rosaries.  Let us leave the bestseller lists to the famous, the lucky, and moderately gifted, and get on with our lives, shall we?  I see no other way to maintain sanity in an unfair, superficial, and illiterate world.
.
    Sincerely, regretfully, mercifully,
    Simon O. Schwartz, publisher               
.
April 9
.
    Dear Editor,
    I’ve enclosed a copy of the potential bestseller I believe you’ve been looking for all your life.  It’s title is, simply, YING AND YANG’S GUIDE TO LIFE AND DEATH.  I’ve been working for 48 hours without sleep or food, and am now satisfied that this is my final draft.  It feels complete, and so do I.   
.
    Hopefully yours,
    Walter H. Pascot, Jr.
.
May 5
.
    Dear Mr. Pascot,    
    I believe we have passed on this manuscript before.  The title has changed, as have the characters to whom you imbue your bizarre viewpoints on various aspects of family life, the arts, religion, and philosophy.  I would suggest that you consult an editorial service or book doctor to get your thoughts in line, and I would be happy to suggest one for you.  However, we at Garden & Gun will have to decline this (and all future correspondence) from you.  We are currently tied up in negotiations with Mitt Romney’s agent to feature an article “Pet Treats of the Incredibly Rich”…and with a four page spread of his dog Pugzy!  Best of luck to you in the future as you continue to pursue your exciting literary career.
.
    Cordially yours,
    Bernard Apperson, editorial assistant {and ex-lawyer}
.
May 14
.
    Dear Editor,
    Enclosed find my manuscript titled THE 12 STEP PROGRAM FOR SPORTS FANATICS.  It has the potential to be a bestseller, as you will soon see.  Do you have any idea how many people–how many housewives, plumbers, lobbyists, bartenders, and chimney sweeps are addicted head over heels to sports?  It is totally insane, what people are doing to themselves.  And for what?  Just to watch some overpaid “god” toss a cow hide with air in it toward a fellow steroid abuser?  There are other things in life to think about besides pork rinds, stomach staples, and the human wave, and we need to get back to those things.  Now, at last, here’s help!
.
    Game, Set, and Match?
    Walter H. Pascot, Jr.
.
May 27
.
    Dear Mr. Pascot,
    We enjoyed reading the opening to your book, but we here at Dobbs Ford/Honda/Jeep primarily publish car owners manuals and not literary works to be sold in bookstores.  May I suggest calling Vantage Press, in your telephone book’s yellow pages?  Hope that helps.
.
    Best,
    Eddie Hatcher, printer’s apprentice
.
PS}  Your book’s title doesn’t seem to match the manuscript you sent us.  Not much about sports here, just other stuff.  What’s wrong with midget throwing, anyway?
.
May 30
.
    Dear Editor,
    Enclosed find my latest manuscript, titled THE OFFICIAL GANG GRAFFITI FIELD GUIDE.  As you know, the symbols found scrawled on buildings and subway cars can sometimes be indecipherable.  You can’t stop it, so why not try to understand it?  Surprisingly, these “young punk taggers” are really misunderstood artists and poetic philosophers with real points of view, which they are trying to express as a prelude to the America’s Got Talent auditions.  Craving their own cable show or at least some meaning in life, they too deserve to be heard, and to have their language interpreted.  Here in this book everything is explained, allowing both the layman and streetwalker alike to learn as much as if they had graduated from gang skool in the ‘hood.  Certainly, given the millions spent on graffiti cleanup each year, this book will be the next bestseller.  So. . .
.
    Whatdayasay?
    Wally Pascot, Jr.
.
June 12
.
    Dear Wally,
    I’m afraid the handwriting’s on the wall on this one.  No go.  Nice try, though.  Are you aware that we are being sued by nine school districts in four states?  It would therefore be inappropriate for us to publish such a book, even if we felt there was any hope the public might buy it.  I would suggest you try finding a small press with a niche market for such humor.  I’ve enclosed a case of sample spray paints in case that doesn’t work out, but good luck anyway.
.
    Best wishes,
    John Cordlandt, VP, Richland Publishing,
    a division of Truebright Paint Products
.
June 17
.
    Dear Editor,
    Enclosed find my manuscript, titled THE NEXT BESTSELLER.  You will note that I have left off my name from the manuscript.  I wish to be referred to as “Anonymous.”  The novel is about a man who mails letter bombs to publishers, book reviewers, and agents with whom he has—or has not—had dealings with in the past.  He is a philosopher, a bit of a poet, and now follows the outline of his last unpublished novel, which is discovered in his abandoned apartment in manuscript form.  He is a driven man, with repressed urges and desires…a lonely man with a twisted past, and an obsession to be recognized and published at any cost.  He has spent his entire adult life writing, while calling out for pizza and avoiding family or potential friends.  An abused child with limited self esteem, his primary diversion has—indeed—been surfing internet web sites linked to porn and high explosives.  But once, late at night, he called out for pizza and got the Oval Office by mistake.  The President told him a secret, again by mistake.  So now he has assess to a database containing all the email addresses of everyone at the Pentagon, and has sold it for millions to the highest bidder. . . in Yemen.  They are planning a cyber attack that will cripple the communications systems of the NSA, while unspeakable devices worthy of slow-mo special effects are being primed in fourteen major U.S. cities. He is on the run, this sick, twisted killer, but still angry at everyone in general, and the press in particular.
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    Et tu?
    Anon
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June 25
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    Dear Anon,
    We have read your manuscript with great interest.  The vivid imagery of the writing is evident throughout, and the anger which forms the motive force behind the plot is incredibly believable.  Your main character possesses an original flair for succinct truths and askance moralizing which does not detract from his obsessive compulsion to exact revenge on those who have snubbed him.  The novel has all the elements we look for in a story, too, including dramatic tension, intrigue, irony, wit, and insight into the human dilemma.  Told with such power and imagination, we wonder what your real name is, and have, in fact, a pool of editors and janitors here who have placed bets that you are really Stephen King, James Lee Burke, Tom Wolfe, Christopher Buckley, or Nadia G.  Which is it?  It is difficult to decide, as your writing possesses elements from all these writers.  It is enigmatic and fascinating, too, the references you make to destitute Greek gods, and to gang graffiti, basketball, the Papacy, and the U.S. Postal Service.  We are still trying to figure out how all the subplots fit together so well, and how you managed to achieve it.  We really believe you have a potential bestseller here, and would like your permission to publish the manuscript in hardcover, and to represent it to a major house for paperback and audio rights.  Our standard contract is for fifty percent of subsidiary and foreign rights, including movie rights, but we are prepared to offer you seventy-five percent as your share, if you sign with us within the coming week.  Please contact us or have your agent contact us regarding a negotiable advance on royalties.  (I see no reason why we cannot talk six figures, here.  I will sell my Apple shares for it, if I have to.)  You won’t be on Charlie Rose, of course, because you do wish to remain Anonymous, right?  But we can almost guarantee an Amazon ranking within Fifty Shades of financial freedom, and with quotes from every big wig on a lobbyist’s dance card, including, perhaps, the President himself.  
    Thank you for submitting your manuscript to my attention.  The discolored and soiled envelope really spooked me, I have to admit.  Especially since there was no return address, and it had oil stains, and a piece of wire sticking out.  But all’s well that end’s well, they say.  And yours does end well.  Very well, indeed, sir.
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    Gratefully, respectfully yours,
    Thomas F. Sinclair, President
    Aardvark Press