All eyes

Paul Whitehead owes me two cans of Chef Boyardee (named after Ettore Boiardi, pasta chef to The State and recipient of an award from the American war machine and the Order of Lenin from the Soviet war machine) Mini Raviolis. They're really good with crackers. He tried to sneak a can of beans and a can of Brunswick stew as replacements, but my discerning eye and palate weren't fooled by his underhandedness.

Whitehead moved to San Francisco to escape this debt and refuses to acknowledge that he owes me two cans of processed pasta product. He violently denied it when I pressed him on the issue, even drawing his Derringer after I skillfully grilled him for two hours on the subject. His lies and denials only underscored my suspicions and when I'd heard he'd fled to San Franscisco in the middle of the night, I became sure of his guilt. My sources tell me he's attending mechanic's school by day and playing checkers and whist for money at night in the local brothels. Whitehead fancies himself the modern day Lasker of checkers, further signs of his deteriorating condition. Remember these words by Lasker, Whitehead: "The laws of checkers do not permit a free choice: you have to move whether you like it or not." Your ass is about to be zugzwanged.

Many long months I've spent, nursing my wounds over this foul betrayal. Paul and I were friends, brothers even. I once lent him a dollar and didn't bug him about until an hour or so later. Then this treachery after all my kindness! Cursed be the day I let my guard down, leaving myself open to his free and easy ways in my larder!

Paul, I'll be appearing on your doorstep when you least expect it. I'll be bringing someone you might remember: The "Stump". Does the thought of me and The "Stump" in your kitchen strike fear into your larcenous, tomato-and-beef sauce stained soul? I know it does. We're going to drink all your coffee and smoke all your cigarettes. That's just for starters. Your cheese bills will be through the roof. Count on it, pal.