• a.p. duvall

A Letter to the Octopus

Dear N. Tuitivley

Let's start with what doesn't matter;

Her name was Taran, last name Tula, and there wasn't a man born that she couldn't make a fool of. She smoked 'em all down, down to the filter, and with a stroke of the spine they all gave a little quiver. No need to lie, there she was livin' like a river, and there was no need to spy, just look around and here she'd be comin' like bad grammar and there she'd go like the school of thought you once had and then grew out of. What an enigma.

I heard you once tried (or are trying) to decode the cipher she left in mascara on your mirror. Had to go out, buy a new one, and kept hers in your closet somewheres. Next to your old suit or dancing shoes I'm sure. Well, good luck to you. There ain't a form of hell that she hasn't given out yet, and even a few that I'd heard she invented. Did you ever get that tattoo removed? I woulda bet you didn't. Or Couldn't.

Well, anyways, I saw her in Albuquerque, outside a gas station bumming a cigarette from an Indian . . . wait, it might have been outside Detroit selling perfume that she stole from rich women . . . shit, if I have to be honest, (and I do) it could have been south of El Paso singing songs with a maudlin mandolin player, collecting change to save up for whatever it was that she did or doesn't do. Hope it helps you find her - if you're still looking for her that is.

Now, let's get to the real issue at hand;

I got your Christmas gift this fourth of July, and save a few questions, I really do appreciate it.

First question, what the hell is it? Where do I plug it in, or what do I put on it? I looked at the manual but it seemed to be written in German or Zwalili or something - and you know me, I'm hardly competent with this language, let alone another man's. But thanks. It's a gift of a true non-blood brother.

Speaking of which, I heard about your sister, and I would give my sympathies, but it was for the best, and I think we both know it.

She'll make a good politician, I just hope your name doesn't get dragged into a speech or onto some social gala invitation.

Second question: Did you ever find that kid on your block that stole your tub of cream? If so do tell me how, and what he was using it for, that has been nagging at me for ages.

I had a dream about a glue factory, must've been last Tuesday, and I was trapped inside of it. The damn place was built like a maze, and of course, I ran into a happier version of myself, and I tried to kill the lucky bastard. He was in a relationship with my old woman and she was happier (and skinnier) too! When I woke up, I wondered what either of those two had to do with the factory making glue, and then I thought about writing to you. Then I remembered your suspicions of that kid stealing your cream and anyways, I'm still sick of all my crazy dreams.

Last question before I go old sport: how are you doing these days? I know the last time we spoke wasn't the best way to leave things, but I felt painted into a corner and you were up on your temper. Let's settle all this and consider it all dust and rust. Besides, we both know there's someone else we can blame this on, and make it better for the both of us.

Oh, and there's one last thing I'd like to say, and one last thing I'd like to write and for you to remember, and it's just one word; 'Trust'.

Stompingly yours,

M. Ercenary


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