'Sir? You need help?'
'Is there a soul on this planet that doesn't?'
'Sir?'
'My name is Etra O'Fleisch. I was a guest at this hotel recently. In the penthouse suite. I left some body parts here.'
'Body parts? Your car was in the hotel parking lot?'
'No, dear girl, no. Not automotive parts, corporeal parts. Dead skin cells, saliva, nasal mucus, strands of hair, nail clippings, Et cetera. As said organic fallout is my property, leading forensic scientists and DNA analysts I've hired are on their way here to retrieve every last piece of my naturally shed body parts from this establishment. Did I mention sweat? I want it back. Every last drop.'
§
Mr. O'Fleisch,
your recent letter to me is both offensive and reprehensible. You are indisputably a pervert, predator and menace to the opposite sex, and possibly your own gender and beasts of the field. Given your detailed description of my daughter Helen's anatomical abnormalities, I admit with repugnance that it is possible that when you were at college together you forced your contemptible depravity on her innocence.
Be informed that I have not kept items of her underwear from her teenage years. Your sickening request to purchase her panties you claim were soiled by your seed is as preposterous as it is disgusting.
May the Good Lord condemn you to Satan's furnace.
Yours piously,
The Right Reverend Leopold Snipp.
§
Howdy Rev. Snipp,
I'm not seeking olfactory gratification from your daughter's old underwear, but do want to recuperate traces of my semen I left in Helen's panties that night in the church graveyard, even if it amounts to a crusty stain in the crotch of the garment.
Scientific studies prove that with each ejaculation the average male releases three hundred million spermatozoa. I don't expect to get all of my tadpoles back from your daughter's knickers, just as much as is possible as I'm collecting and curating every part of my body I've naturally shed during my life.
Similar requests made to mistresses, one-night stands and whores I have had dalliances with have not met with the likes of the holier than the thou missive you sent me. When your God told humans to go forth and multiply, I guess He didn't imagine the DNA lottery would spew out oddballs like you.
Yours agnostically,
Etra O'Fleisch.
§
Dear Mr. Grabarat,
I am dismayed by your negative response to my perfectly reasonable request for the return of all faeces and urine evacuated from my body and flushed into the city sewers of which you are Administrator. An identical request made to the sewerage centre in Bogota following a visit there proved more fruitful. If a pisspot country like Columbia can sort out my shit, surely our great country can?
I attach a copy of my DNA profile in order to facilitate identification of my bodily waste. To avoid robust litigation, kindly arrange for all of my stools and urine in the sewers under your supervision to be separated from those of the lumpenproletariat and forwarded to me by return of post.
Yours sleuthfully,
Etra O'Fleisch.
§
Dear Mr. O'Fleisch,
concerning your letter of enquiry. Here at Stellar Suits Inc. we do indeed manufacture spacesuits for NASA astronauts. Yours is a highly unusual request, but we could modify our existing spacesuit 4729/NGE/007/USA for it to become your permanent night and day attire for the duration of your lifetime. Laboratory equipment manufacturers would be consulted to ensure a complex network of conduits within the spacesuit which would guarantee collection of your natural bodily fallout and waste matter. I attach an estimate of costs of the spacesuit.
Regards,
Theodore S. Kroog III
Vice President
Stellar Suits Inc.
Florida USA
§
To: His Holiness The Dalai Lama.
<zenboss@buddabiz.com>
From: Etra.O. Fleisch
<etra.o.fleisch@tepidmail.com>
Your Holiness,
if I were to convert to Buddhism, can you please inform me of the following:
a) Would Buddha give me back all natural bodily fallout and waste from each of my past lives?
b) Would Buddha object to my getting chummy with my chakras whilst I'm wearing a spacesuit?
e-mail me with your thoughts.
Take care,
Etra O'Fleisch.
§
Wealthy douchebag,
we are aware of your attempts to recuperate natural fallout and waste matter shed from your body. There can be no explanation for your psychotic quest to gather up your natural bodily fallout other than that you are the perpetrator of multiple homicides attempting to hide evidence, even though no DNA of other forensic traces matching your profile were found at any homicide crime scenes. Fact is, we just don't like you, and your lavish millionaire lifestyle makes us so envious that we're cobbling together fake evidence that will put you in jail where it'll be cornbread instead of caviar, and sodomy by sex starved convicts with feral instincts. You are under permanent surveillance and we intercept and scrutinise all of your communications.
Your agreement that we conserve our anonymity is a legal requirement. This is necessary for State security purposes.
Yours in immunity,
The Unmentionables.
§
Spineless heel clicking yellow bellied üntermentionables, your agriculture that I consecrate my anomie is a beagle requiem. This is necessitarian for stale secular porpoises.
Giving you the finger, I am, in all innocence,
Etra O'Fleisch.
§
A nation wide manhunt is underway to find eccentric multi millionaire Etra O'Fleisch Unnamed officials from undisclosed departments of State are eager to interrogate Mr. O'Fleisch concerning stockage of materials which could prove hazardous to public health. Mr. O'Fleisch was last seen wearing a spacesuit.
§
To: Etra O'Fleisch
<etra.o.fleisch@tepidmail.com>
From: His Holiness The Dalai Lama.
<zenboss@buddabiz.com>
Dear Mr. Fleisch,
His Holiness the Dalai Lama has asked me to write to you on His behalf.
His Holiness thanks you for your interest in Buddhism, but feels that it is not the religion for you.
Have you tried the Catholics? Should the Pope object to you worshipping in a spacesuit, tell the Pontiff to take a look at the funny finery he hangs on his crinkly old carcass.
Om, etc.,
Bunjami Bheebopalula.
§
'Jeez. What happened to your couch?'
'The perils of being a shrink. A patient who believes that soft furnishings are hideouts for man eating kittens from another planet slashed the stuffing out of the upholstery with my paper knife to kill the imaginary kittens. Is that an Adidas spacesuit you're wearing, or a real spacesuit?'
'Can you begin to fathom what a potentially impossible task it is for a person to recuperate the multitude of body parts they've left in various locations during a lifetime?'
'Sisyphus.'
'What?'
'Not what. Who. Sisyphus. Greek mythology. The daily task Sisyphus faced during his lifetime was to push a giant boulder up a steep hill. Each time he almost made it to the top, gravity, the weight of the boulder and his depleting strength made it roll back down the hill, but each day he tried and failed again. A metaphor for the futility of the absurd endeavours humans engage in during their nonsensical existence. As a psychiatrist, I speak with authority when I say there's more insanity outside of asylums than on the inside. This planet is one big crime scene, and we're all criminals.'
'If I told you I'm under surveillance 24/7 by anonymous spooks who are faking evidence that I'm a murderer, would you diagnose me as paranoid?'
'No.'
§
Honeybuns,
my dad died last week, a massive heart attack. One of the Nuns found him in church, stark naked apart from a kinky black patent leather corset with metal spikes, which didn't look cool for a man of the cloth who'd spent his life preaching that the flesh is weak. In one hand he had an empty bottle of tequila, and in the other photos of me in the bathtub when I was a kid and a letter you'd written him about that night you popped my cherry in the graveyard.
I'm married to a guy in white goods. When I met him I was broody and way past being a Spring chicken so thought aw shucks, he'll just have to do. He's dependable but grody and boring, so once in a blue moon when what's between my legs tells me it's tired of being in a squeaky clean coma and wants to get down and dirty, I lubricate, turn on a porn movie, coax his stump into an excuse for an erection, close my eyes and fantasise that he's King Kong.
Those panties you want to get your hands on are long gone. They were cotton, so I get a kick from imagining they've been recycled as table napkins and rich people in snazzy restaurants wipe their mouths with my stinky undies when they eat dinner.
I can post you some panties I wear now, though I put on weight after the triplets were born so XXL panties with reinforced gussets might not tickle your pickle.
Look me up if ever you're in Alaska.
Yours for a cocktail,
Helen Vurd (née Snipp).
§
Mr. O'Fleisch,
your agreement that we conserve our anonymity is a legal requirement. This is necessary for State security purposes.
Boy, did your mission to retrieve all your natural bodily fallout and waste matter from your entire life backfire on you. Your insane crusade is headline news across the world, which has prompted reaction from everyone you've ever been in contact with from everywhere you've ever travelled to. There are 13,648 (and counting) people filing law suits against you for theft of traces of them that were left on you when you crossed their paths. So the multi millionaire living in luxury you are now will soon be a bankrupt bum living in a cardboard box in a back alley.
We can't comment on which anonymous organisation is so omnipotent and vengeful as to have been able to manipulate the world's media into making your farcical folly mega news.
Yours in schadenfreude,
The Unmentionables.
§
'Am I dead? Is this place heaven?'
'Nothing ever dies. You've been returned. Returned. Ring a bell? You, a seemingly insignificant nanoscopic fragment shed from the ethereal body aeons ago is returned to its source. Of no apparent importance, yet absolutely vital. You, a seemingly inconsequential exiguous scintilla, collided with other infinitesimal fragments during migration synchronous to collective decomposition, scattered traces of which allow for identification. An ontological paradigm.'
'Where's the nearest crapper?'
§
Mother dear,
I'm not sure these thoughts will ever reach you. But I remembered what you told me about the time you were a hippy on Haight Ashbury, and how you got stoned with that part time shaman from Kansas who taught you astral telepathy as a way of reaching across space and time with your thoughts, and tuning in to thoughts of others. If you can get back to me, we'll know that paranormal stuff you dabbled in all those years ago works. How are you guys? Did PC's For Dummies get you up and running with the computer I sent you last Christmas? Say hi to dad. I hope those herbal suppositories stopped his hair loss so he kept what remains of his ponytail, and that having to wear incontinence diapers doesn't prevent him from doing a lively jig like he always did when he listens to those old vinyl Country and Western records. Before these thoughts I'm transmitting to you end up as mashed static in a hurricane of interference from cosmological radio waves, a question. That fake Rabbi who convinced you to let him circumsise me with a breadknife when I was eight years old. Did you by any chance keep my foreskin?
Later,
the prodigal son,
Etra.
