May 24 2007

Text By Meera Sethi

Irene,

about the money: you'll find it in the grate. I wouldn't worry; hard as you are, you won't have to wait on those coals too long before you have your diamonds back again. Still, if I know you—and, god help me, I do—there's already some poor schmuck waiting in the wings to lay more rocks around that sweet neck of yours. I'm only sorry I won't be around to tell whoever it is to pull that clasp a little tighter.

The cops will want to know why I did it—well, Irene, a fella's got to start taking charge of his own story sometime, hasn't he? It always starts the same way, but the least I can do now is make sure I don't let it finish the way you wanted it to. You can tell 'em from me this was the only ending I could think of that would keep you from turning the whole sorry mess into a comedy.

Speaking of which, don't bother with those crocodile tears of yours. Just do me a favor and feed the damned dog.

The sun's going down now. See you in hell, Irene.

Jack.