I enjoyed reading your email. It only took me two hours - two hours which I
will never get back again. Ever.
I don't even know where to begin. Responding to long emails is a daunting
task - do you address the first part first, the second part or the third?
No matter. I've already dispatched (a double entrendre) the Rosato Brothers
to the Island Inn tonight. Be prepared. I've spared Maggie the Cat.
I've got to run to see the hockey game at a friend's house, so I must leave
you now.
For tomorrow night, I've been assigned dessert duty. I plan on bringing a
pie. How many shall I bring?
XOXO
Gormest Gustavo
P.S. I saw a picture of the Team II squash team in the VRC lounge from
1986(?). It featured a much younger-looking, red-bearded, devil-like Il
Conductore standing in the middle (I think Ricky Ng and Brian Covington are
also in the picture).
-----Original Message-----
From: Patrick Dunn [mailto:pdunn@interchange.ubc.ca]
Sent: Friday, June 10, 2011 12:52 AM
To: Milton Kiang
Cc: George Maddison; Branko Peric; Wayne Sutherland; Ayn Prince
Subject: Thursday Evening Greetings from The Island Inn!
Dearest Del Vecchio! (I address you thusly even though there is little
probability that you will reach ripe old age, given your persistent death
wish mentality.)
For your information, I have had little opportunity to respond to your more
than pestering emails, given the fact that I have had to devote a certain
amount of my valuable time and energy to dealing with your bumbling,
would-be assassins, the highly over-rated, and now defunct, Obregon
Brothers. I am sorry to inform you that the Obregons have done gone away,
with a little help from my friends, but I get ahead of myself, Goofy
Gustavo.
The picture of you with your eyes closed at last Sunday's soirée, gave me an
idea for dealing with the above-mentioned hit men. Enlisting Maggie's help,
we waited on the patio, in the dead of Wednesday night, (pardon the turn of
phrase), for the two punks to arrive. When I heard them stalking up the path
I gave the command, "Dog", to Maggie and instinct took over. She leapt onto
their backs and with four fearless slashes of her razor sharp claws, blinded
the oafs before they could utter so much as a "Madre Mia" or "Holy
Enchilada"! I immediately stuffed lye-soaked rags into their mouths to
further silence them and then bound their arms behind their backs using
plastic slip ties that Lars at Reckless was happy to supply, especially when
I told him what good use I planned to make of them!
I took special pleasure in tightening the restraints to the point that blood
welled up from the ligature marks on their wrists, and then proceeded to
walk, or more correctly, stumble, the stumble bums towards the marina where
Barnacle Branymir moors The Inside Passage. By this time it was 3:00am and
nary a soul was out, (although two souls, given the fact that the Brothers
Obregon do indeed possess souls, were about to be launched towards Hades),
and about so I had no fear of being observed as we three made our way, two
more reluctantly than some, down the walkway to the marina.
Ragin' Bull had given me the key code, (Last Monday Whirlygig and I stopped
by the marina in Steveston to see what progress Barnacle Man was making on
his hull repair. While chatting and inspecting the scraping already
completed, I asked for the password, suggesting I would need it if I was to
be there when he returned, the following week, to help him berth the Inside
Passage.), so I had little difficulty gaining entrance, and walked my sorry
companions down the plank, so to speak, to the berth, now empty, where
Branko's Folly is ordinarily to be found. I whispered into each right ear of
the strangely acquiescent Obregon Brothers, telling them to kneel down at
the edge of the floating dock.
Moaning pitifully, for that was all the sound that escaped their blocked
mouths, the lye obviously doing a rather nasty job on their mouths and the
lining of their stomachs, they obeyed forthwith. Once they were positioned
to my satisfaction, I took out my trusty Swiss Army knife and sliced off
most of each of their left ears. Not much left of those aural appendages
after two quick swipes. I'm happy to report that the blade is so sharp that
I fully believe they felt but little discomfort, or else the almost surgical
nature of the cut was such that it probably caused little pain, compared to
that which continued to be generated as the lye continued on its merry way,
having at the linings of their throats and bowels.
I took out my Nagant, the standard-issue sidearm for all Russian army and
police officers during WW II, together with its important modification, a
Bramit silencer, (I had saved, from a vicious shark attack, a member of the
Medellín Cartel who was lying low in Mexico, this past February, while he
was swimming at a beach near Guayabitos, close to the house we had rented
and to show his deep appreciation and gratitude, he presented me with the
weaponry. I concealed it in the two K's of coke he included as part of the
thank you gift and told the boarder officials, both US and Canadian, that it
was special pastry flour and we were waved through!), and placed the cold
barrel against the back of the head of one Obregon Brother, (Juan, I
believe, was first, then José), and then the other. Each, in his turn,
turned to look up at me, (as if that did any good given the fact that their
bloody orbs were sightless), and gave me such a beseeching look that I can
only surmise that they were thanking me for the bullet about to scramble
their brains so bringing an end to their internal agony, so to speak. As to
their eternal agony, I leave it to you, Del Vechio, to cogitate upon, for
you sent these vermin to their maker as surely as I squeezed the trigger of
my silenced pistol.
Two barely audible hiccups later and the once cocky Brothers Obregon didn't
look quite so jaunty with most of their faces missing and much of what
little grey matter they possessed, now showing a rather nice pinkish tint,
speckling the still water beside the dock. I had had the foresight to wrap a
piece of rope around their ankles, after they assumed the kneeling position,
(I sincerely trust they used the few minutes it took to lash their ankles to
make their peace with Lucifer, given that they were in the perfect position
to ask for forgiveness.), and lowered their now lifeless bodies into the
drink, a few bubbles breaking the surface as the last air escaped their
lungs.
Tying each rope to a different bollard, I rinsed my hands in the cool brine
and walked cooly away, back to the Island Inn, where I was pleased to find
that Maggie had removed all traces of the blood which had leaked from the
ruined eyes onto the patio deck. Once I'd shepherded the captives onto the
path leading to the Seawall, I had glanced back to see my feline accomplice
licking, with obvious satisfaction, the shiny droplets which flecked the
deck surface like a Jackson Pollock drip painting. Good Kitty!
I wasn't worried that the bodies would be discovered. In fact, I assumed
that their bloated carcasses would rise to the surface by the time Barnacle
Branko returned The Inside Passage to her home berth and would make for
rather good dock bumpers and certainly, if nothing else, rather interesting
topics of conversation for those aboard, as well as grim reminders of what
awaits those who choose to play a deadly game of cat and mouse, so to speak,
with Maggie the Malevolent and her partner in crime, Il Conductore.
I remain, as ever, your Obsequious Servant, Patrizio, Diavolo Rosso con la
Barba!
PS: I have included copies of your original threats so that if anything
untoward should befall either The Maggster or I, those receiving this email,
(CC), will seek revenge in a most cruel and unusual way. In short, you will
dream about being dispatched like the Obregon Brothers. Furthermore, you
won't be able to spit on my "Insurance Policy' for you won't have a tongue
by then!
PPS: You will be receiving a parcel from FedEx in the next day or so. In it,
you will find two left ears, floating in a jorgum of bourbon. I advise you
not to drink the fluid as it is two parts strychnine, one part mash.
PPPS: On sober second thought, it probably wouldn't hurt you, given the
chain cleaner you usually knock back!
PPPPS: I "feel" fine about the Obregon Brothers, especially when they "fell"
on their knees!
PPPPPS: "Sorry"! I spit on your "sorry"! You don't even begin to know how
"sorry" you will be, my friend! Maggie likes fresh blood but I think she is
even fonder of Chinese stir fry and not with soy cubes either!
Sorry to bother you again, as I know you are very busy man, but I forgot to
ask you about the Obregon brothers. How do you fell about the Obregon
brothers?
- Cici ("Da Cheech") Del Vechio
---Original Message-----
> Date: Wed Jun 08 13:22:57 PDT 2011
> From: "Milton Kiang"
> Subject: RE: Tuesday Morning Greetings from The Island Inn!
> To: "'Patrick Dunn'"
>
> Since I haven't heard back from you, I'm assuming: a. The Obregon
> brothers have gotten to you b. You've run away from home c. You've
> joined the Rosato brothers.
>
> Yours truly,
>
> Gormest Gustavo Chu
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Patrick Dunn [mailto:pdunn@interchange.ubc.ca]
> Sent: Tuesday, June 07, 2011 11:18 AM
> To: Milton Kiang
> Subject: Tuesday Morning Greetings from The Island Inn!
>
> Hi Walrus!
>
> Thanks for alert regarding Rosato Brothers but they will be The Blood
> Red Brothers if they try to mess with Il Conductore, with our without
> my spectaculares! Cheers, Grigor "The Weasel" Allende-Peron, from Il
Conductore!
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