I loaded my suitcase and my pet Albino Polar Bear, Captain Platypus, into the back of my station wagon and set off for Denver, Colorado to make my petition to Tammy the Werewolf King in her glittering palace of rhinestones, Castle Pontiac LeMans. Fellow werewolves said I was a fool to go. “You’re not a werewolf, Ed,” they told me. “And neither are we.” None of them could equal my boldness, I knew. They were timid lycanthropes, afraid to chase the wild goose across the American panoply.
Somewhere around Cleveland I sold Captain Platypus to a fast food restaurant. I think they put him in the chili. Before you get mad at me, you should know that he was already dead when I sold him. From neglect. Sometimes I forget that there’s nothing for a polar bear to eat in a station wagon. I’ve written it on my hand, so I’ll remember from now on. So everything’s okay.
Fifteen years later, after several missed turns totaling almost 33,000 extra miles, I arrived at my destination, the Blue Cathedral of the Vampire Prime Minister, America Chapter. As I pulled into the parking garage, I knew that my decision to leave my fellow vampires years ago and set out with my pet platypus, Captain Station Wagon, had been the right decision. I was so excited to see the Prime Minister, however, that, upon arriving at the top floor of the garage and selecting a parking place, I accidentally hit the accelerator instead of the brake and my old pickup truck smashed into and flipped over the small concrete wall and fell eight floors to the crushing pavement below. I was killed instantly, and I’m writing this from the afterlife. I’m not allowed to tell you what it’s like here, but it’s nothing like you think it’s going to be, as far as I know.
Hello, friends. I’m coming to visit later. Have tea ready.
Later. Love.
